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VvKilc  the  candle  burnj.  _(§ 


[liiujrrftti»ns  b«' 

>  CJ -Taylor 
;    F-Of>per 


tt     5-B-Cri^in 


\  * 


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"SHORT  sixes:1 


LOUISE. 


"SHORT   SIXES" 

STORIES  TO  BE   READ  WHILE  THE  CANDLE   BURNS 


H.  C.  BUNNER 

Author  of  "Airs  from  A  ready"    "The  Midge"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 


C.  JAY  TAYLOR,     F.  OPPER   and   S.  B.  GRIFFIN 


PUCK 

keppler  &  schwarzmann 

New  York 

1891 


Copyright,  1890,  by  Keppler  &  SchwarzmanN. 


TO 

A.     L.     B. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 
I.     The  Tenor i 

Illustrated  by  C.  Jay  Taylor. 

II.     Col.   Brereton's  Aunty  23 

Illustrated  by  C.   J  iy  Taylor. 

III.  A  Round-Up  39 

Illustrated  by  C.   Jay  Taylor. 

IV.  The  Two  Churches  of  'Quawket 55 

Illustrated  by  F.  Opper. 

V.     The  Love-Letters  of  Smith 71 

Illustrated  by  C.   Jay  Taylor. 

VI.     Zenobia's  Infidelity 89 

Illustrated  by  S.  B.   Griffin. 

VII.     The  Nine  Cent-Girls in 

Illustrated  by  S.  B.   Griffin. 

VIII.     The  Nice  People 129 

Illustrated  by  C.  Jay  Taylor. 

IX.     Mr.   Copernicus  and  the  Proletariat 147 

Illustrated  by  C.  Jay  Taylor. 

X.     Hector 165 

Illustrated  by   C.  Jay  Taylor. 

XL     A  Sisterly  Scheme 181 

Illustrated  by  C.  Jay  Taylor. 

XII.     Zozo iox) 

Illustrated  by  C.    Jay  Taylor. 

XIII.     An  Old,  Old  Story 217 

Illustrated  by  C.  Jay  Taylor. 


THE   TENOR. 


THE  TENOR. 


IT  WAS  A  DIM,  QUIET  ROOM  in  an  old-fashioned  New 
York  house,  with  windows  opening  upon  a  garden 
that  was  trim  and  attractive,  even  in  its  Winter  dress  — 
for  the  rose-bushes  were  all  bundled  up  in  straw  ulsters. 
The  room  was  ample,  yet  it  had 

a  cosy   air.      Its  dark  hangings  A\ 

suggested  comfort  and  lux- 
ury, with  no  hint  of  gloom. 
A  hundred  pretty  trifles  told 
that  it  was  a  young  girl's 
room :  in  the  deep  alcove 
nestled  her  dainty  white  bed, 
draped  with  creamy  lace  and 
ribbons. 

"  I    was  so   afraid   that 
I  'd  be  late  !  " 

The  door  opened,  and  two 
pretty  girls  came  in,  one  in   hat 

and  furs,  the  other  in  a  modest  house-dress.  The  girl  in 
the  furs,  who  had  been  afraid  that  she  would  be  late, 
\vas  fair,  with  a  bright  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  an  eager. 


SHORT    SIXES." 


intent  look  in  her  clear  brown  eyes.  The  other  girl  was 
dark-eyed  and  dark-haired,  dreamy,  with  a  soft',  warm, 
dusky  color  in  her  face.  They  were  two  very  pretty  girls 
indeed  —  or,  rather,  two  girls  about  to  be  very  pretty, 
for  neither  one  was  eighteen  years  old. 
The  dark  girl  glanced  at  a  little 
porcelain  clock. 

"  You  are  in  time,  dear,"  she 
said,  and  helped  her  com- 
panion to  take  off  her  wraps. 
Then  the  two  girls  crossed 
the  room,  and  with  a  caress- 
ing and  almost  a  reverent 
touch,  the  dark  girl  open- 
ed the  doors  of  a  little 
carven  cabinet  that  hung 
upon  the  wall,  above  a 
small  table  covered  with 
a  delicate  white  cloth. 
In  its  depths,  framed  in  a 
mat  of  odorous  double  violets,  stood  the  photograph  of 
the  face  of  a  handsome  man  of  forty  —  a  face  crowned 
with  clustering  black  locks,  from  beneath  which  a  pair 
of  large,  mournful  eyes  looked  out  with  something  like 
religious  fervor  in  their  rapt  gaze.  It  was  the  face  of  a 
foreigner. 

"  O  Esther !  "  cried  the  other  girl,  "how  beautifully 
you  have  dressed  him  to-day  !  " 

"I  wanted  to  get  more,"  Esther  said;    "but  I've 
spent  almost  all  my  allowance  —  and  violets  do  cost  so 


THE  TENOR.  $ 

shockingly.  Come,  now  — "  with  another  glance  at  the 
clock — "don't  let's  lose  any  more  time,  Louise  dear." 

She  brought  a  couple  of  tiny  candles  in  Sevres  can- 
dlesticks, and  two  little  silver  saucers,  in  which  she  lit 
fragrant  pastilles.  As  the  pale  gray  smoke  arose,  floating 
in  faint  wreaths  and  spirals  before  the  enshrined  photo- 
graph, Louise  sat  down  and  gazed  intently  upon  the  little 
altar.  Esther  went  to  her  piano  and  watched  the  clock. 
It  struck  two.  Her  hands  fell  softly  on  the  keys,  and, 
studying  a  printed  programme  in  front  of  her,  she  began 
to  play  an  overture.  After  the  overture  she  played  one 
or  two  pieces  of  the  regular  concert  stock.  Then  she 
paused. 

"I  can't  play  the  Tschaikowski  piece." 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  other.  "Let  us  wait  for 
him  in  silence." 

The  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  to  2:29.  Each  girl 
drew  a  quick  breath,  and  then  the  one  at  the  piano 
began  to  sing  softly,  almost  inaudibly,  "  les  Rameaux  " 
in  a  transcription  for  tenor  of  Faure's  great  song.  When 
it  was  ended,  she  played  and  sang  the  encore.  Then, 
with  her  fingers  touching  the  keys  so  softly  that  they 
awakened  only  an  echo-like  sound,  she  ran  over  the 
numbers  that  intervened  between  the  first  tencr  solo  and 
the  second.     Then  she  sang  again,  as  softly  as  before. 

The  fair-haired  girl  sat  by  the  little  table,  gazing  in- 
tently on  the  picture.  Her  great  eyes  seemed  to  devour 
it,  and  yet  there  was  something  absent-minded,  specula- 
tive, in  her  steady  look.  She  did  not  speak  until  Esther 
played  the  last  number  on  the  programme. 


4  "  SHORT  SIXES." 

"  He  had  three  encores  for  that  last  Saturday,' 
she  said,  and  Esther  played  the  three  encores. 

Then  they  closed  the  piano  and  the  little  cabinet, 
and  exchanged  an  innocent  girlish  kiss,  and  Louise  went 
out,  and  found  her  father's  coupe  waiting  for  her,  and  was 
driven  away  to  her  great,  gloomy,  brown-stone  home 
near  Central  Park. 

Louise  Laura  Latimer  and  Esther  Van  Guilder  were 
the  only  children  of  two  families  which,  though  they 
were  possessed  of  the  three  "Rs"  which  are  all  and  more 
than  are  needed  to  insure  admission  to  New  York  society 
- — Riches,  Respectability  and  Religion — yet  were  not  in 
Society ;  or,  at  least,  in  the  society  that  calls  itself  So- 
ciety. This  was  not  because  Society  was  not  willing  to 
have  them.  It  was  because  they  thought  the  world  too 
worldly.  Perhaps  this  was  one  reason  —  although  the 
social  horizon  of  the  two  families  had  expanded  some- 
what as  the  girls  grew  up  —  why  Louise  and  Esther, 
who  had  been  playmates  from  their  nursery  days,  and 
had  grown  up  to  be  two  uncommonly  sentimental,  fan- 
ciful, enthusiastically  morbid  girls,  were  to  be  found 
spending  a  bright  Winter  afternoon  holding  a  ceremonial 
service  of  worship  before  the  photograph  of  a  fashion- 
able French  tenor. 

It  happened  to  be  a  French  tenor  whom  they  were 
worshiping.  It  might  as  well  have  been  anybody  or  any 
thing  else.  They  were  both  at  that  period  of  girlish 
growth  when  the  young  female  bosom  is  torn  by  a  hys- 
terical craving  to  worship  something  —  any  thing.  They 
had  been  studying  music,  and  they  had  selected  the  tenor 


THE  TEXOR.  5 

who  was  the  sensation  of  the  hour  in  New  York  for  their 
idol.  They  had  heard  him  only  on  the  concert  stage;  they 
were  never  likely  to  see  him  nearer.  But  it  was  a  mere 
matter  of  chance  that  the  idol  was  not  a  Boston  Tran- 
scendentalism a  Popular  Preacher,  a  Faith-Cure  Healer, 
or  a  ringleted  old  maid  with  advanced  ideas  of  Woman's 
Mission.  The  ceremonies  might  have  been  different  in 
form  :    the  worship  would  have  been  the  same. 

M.  Hyppolite  Remy  was  certainly  the  musical  hero 
of  the  hour.  When  his  advance  notices  first  appeared, 
the  New  York  critics,  who  are  a  singularly  unconfiding, 
incredulous  lot,  were  inclined  to  discount  his  European 
reputation. 

When  they  learned  that  M.  Remy  was  not  only  a 
great  artist,  but  a  man  whose  character  was  "wholly 
free  from  that  deplorable  laxity  which  is  so  often  a  blot 
on  the  proud  escutcheon  of  his  noble  profession  ;  "  that 
he  had  married  an  American  lady;  that  he  had  "em- 
braced the  Protestant  religion"  —  no  sect  was  specified, 
possibly  to  avoid  jealousy  —  and  that  his  health  was 
delicate,  they  were  moved  to  suspect  that  he  might  have 
to  ask  that  allowances  be  made  for  his  singing.  But 
when  he  arrived,  his  triumph  was  complete.  He  was  as 
handsome  as  his  pictures,  if  he  was  a  trifle  short,  a 
shade  too  stout. 

He  was  a  singer  of  genius,  too;  with  a  splendid 
voice  and  a  sound  method  —  on  the  whole.  It  was  be- 
fore the  days  of  the  Wagner  autocracy,  and  perhaps  his 
tremolo  passed  unchallenged  as  it  could  not  now ;  but 
he  was  a  great  artist.      He  knew  his  business  as  well  as 


6  "SHORT   SIXES." 

his  advance-agent  knew  his.  The  Remy  Concerts  were  a 
splendid  success.  Reserved  seats,  $5.  For  the  Series 
of  Six,  $25. 


On  the  following  Monday,  Esther  Van  Guilder  re- 
turned her  friend's  call,  in  response  to  an  urgent  invita- 
tion, despatched  by  mail.  Louise  Latimer's  great  bare 
room  was  incapable  of  transmutation  into  a  cosy  nest 
of  a  boudoir.  There  was  too  much  of  its  heavy  raw  silk 
furniture — too  much  of  its  vast,  sarcophagus-like  bed  — 
too  much  of  its  upholsterer's  elegance,  regardless  of  cost 
—  and  taste.  An  enlargement  from  an  ambrotype  of  the 
original  Latimer,  as  he  arrived  in  New  York  from  New 
Hampshire,  and  a  photograph  of  a  "child  subject"  by 
Millais,  were  all  her  works  of  art.  It  was  not  to  be 
doubted  that  they  had  climbed  upstairs  from  a  front 
parlor  of  an  earlier  stage  of  social  development.  The 
farm-house  was  six  generations  behind  Esther;  two  be- 
hind Louise. 

Esther  found  her  friend  in  a  state  of  almost  feverish 
excitement.  Her  eyes  shone  ;  the  color  burned  high  on 
her  clear  cheeks. 

"You  never  would  guess  what  I  've  done,  dear!" 
she  began,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone  in  the  big  room. 
"  I  'm  going  to  see  him  —  to  speak  to  him  —  Esther!'1'' 
Her  voice  was  solemnly  hushed,  "  to  serve  him  ! " 

"  Oh,  Louise  !  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"To  serve  him  —  with  my  own  hands!    To  —  to  — 


^v-r  l"  "\  *- aft  i^LJ^<- 


help  him  on  with  his  coat  —  I  don't  know  —  to  do  some- 
thing that  a  servant  does  —  any  thing,  so  that  I  can  say 
that  once,  once  only,  just  for  an  hour,  I  have  been  near 
him,  been  of  use  to  him,  served  him  in  one  little  thing, 
as  loyally  as  he  serves  OUR  ART." 

Music  was  THEIR  art,  and  no  capitals  could  tell 
how  much   it  was  theirs  or  how  much  of  an  art  it  was. 

"Louise,"  demanded  Esther,  with  a  frightened  look, 
"are  you  crazy  ?  " 

"  No.  Read  this  ! "  She  handed  the  other  girl  a 
clipping  from  the  advertising  columns  of  a  newspaper. 

pHAMBERMAID  AND  WAITRESS.— WANTED,  A  NEAT 
'k-*  and  willing  girl,  for  light  work.  Apply  to  Rime.  Kemy,  The 
Midlothian, Broadway. 


"  I   saw  it  just  by  accident,   Saturday,  after  I  left 
you.    Papa  had  left  his  paper  in  the  coupe.     I  was  going 


8  "SHORT   SIXES." 

up  to  my  First  Aid  to  the  Injured  Class  —  it  's  at  four 
o'clock  now,  you  know.      I  made  up  my  mind  right  off 

—  it  came  to  me  like  an  inspiration.  I  just  waited  until 
it  came  to  the  place  where  they  showed  how  to  tie  up 
arteries,  and  then  I  slipped  out.  Lots  of  the  girls  slip 
out  in  the  horrid  parts,  you  know.  And  then,  instead 
of  waiting  in  the  ante-room,  I  put  on  my  wrap,  and 
pulled  the  hood  over  my  head  and  ran  off  to  the 
Midlothian  —  it's  just  around  the  corner,  you  know. 
And  I  saw  his  wife." 

"What  was  she  like?"  queried  Esther,  eagerly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Sort  of  horrid  —  actressy. 
She  had  a  pink  silk  wrapper  with  swansdown  all  over 
it  —  at  four  o'clock,  think !  I  was  awfully  frightened 
when  I  got  there ;  but  it  was  n't  the  least  trouble. 
She  hardly  looked  at  me,  and  she  engaged  me  right  off. 
She  just  asked  me  if  I  was  willing  to  do  a  whole  lot 
of  things  —  I  forget  what  they  were  —  and  where  I  'd 
worked  before.      I  said  at  Mrs.  Barcalow's." 

"  '  Mrs.  Barcalow's?'  " 

"Why,   yes  —  my  Aunt   Amanda,  don't   you  know 

—  up  in  Framingham.  I  always  have  to  wash  the  tea- 
cups when  I  go  there.  Aunty  says  that  everybody  has 
got  to  do  something  in  her  house." 

"Oh,  Louise!"  cried  her  friend,  in  shocked  ad- 
miration;  "how  can  you  think  of  such  things?" 

"Well,  I  did.  And  she  —  his  wife,  you  know  — 
just  said:  'Oh,  I   suppose  you  '11  do  as  well  as  any  one 

—  all  you  girls  are  alike.'  " 

"  But  did  she  really  take  you  for  a  —  servant?" 


THE  TENOR.  g 

"  Why,  yes,  indeed.  It  was  raining.  I  had  that  old 
ulster  on,  you  know.  I  'm  to  go  at  twelve  o'clock  next 
Saturday." 

"But,  Louise  !"  cried  Esther,  aghast,  "you  don't 
truly  mean  to  go  !" 

"I  do  !  "  cried  Louise,  beaming  triumphantly. 

"  Oh,  Louise  J" 

"  Now,  listen,  dear,  said  Miss  Latimer,  with  the 
decision  of  an  enthusiastic  young  lady  with  New  Eng- 
land blood  in  her  veins.  "Don't  say  a  word  till  I  tell 
you  what  my  plan  is.  I  've  thought  it  all  out,  and 
you  've  got  to  help  me." 

Esther  shuddered. 

"  You  foolish  child  !  "  cried  Louise.  Her  eyes  were 
sparkling :  she  was  in  a  state  of  ecstatic  excitement ;  she 
could  see  no  obstacles  to  the  carrying  out  of  her  plan. 
"You  don't  think  I  mean  to  stay  there,  do  you?  I  'm 
just  going  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  at  four  he  comes  back 
from  the  matinee,  and  at  five  o'clock  I  'm  going  to 
slip  on  my  things  and  run  downstairs,  and  have  you 
waiting  for  me  in  the  coupe,  and  off  we  go.  Now 
do  you  see  ?  " 

It  took  some  time  to  bring  Esther's  less  venturesome 
spirit  up  to  the  point  of  assisting  in  this  bold  undertak- 
ing; but  she  began,  after  awhile,  to  feel  the  delights  of 
vicarious  enterprise,  and  in  the  end  the  two  girls,  their 
cheeks  flushed,  therr  eyes  shining  feverishly,  their  voices 
tremulous  with  childish  eagerness,  resolved  themselves 
into  a  committee  of  ways  and  means ;  for  they  were  two 
well-guarded  young  women,  and  to  engineer  five  hours 


io  "SHORT   SIXES." 

of  liberty  was  difficult  to  the  verge  of  impossibility. 
However,  there  is  a  financial  manoeuvre  known  as  "kit- 
ing checks,"  whereby  A  exchanges  a  check  with  B  and 
B  swaps  with  A  again,  playing  an  imaginary  balance 
against  Time  and  the  Clearing  House ;  and  by  a  similar 
scheme,  which  an  acute  student  of  social  ethics  has  called 
"kiting  calls,"  the  girls  found  that  they  could  make  Sat- 
urday afternoon  their  own,  without  one  glance  from  the 
watchful  eyes  of  Esther's  mother  or  Louise's  aunt  — 
Louise  had  only  an  aunt  to  reckon  with. 

"And,  oh,  Esther!"  cried  the  bolder  of  the  con- 
spirators, "  I  've  thought  of  a  trunk —  of  course  I  've 
got  to  have  a  trunk,  or  she  would  ask  me  where  it  was, 
and  I  could  n't  tell  her  a  fib.  Don't  you  remember  the 
French  maid  who  died  three  days  after  she  came  here  ? 
Her  trunk  is  up  in  the  store-room  still,  and  I  don't  be- 
lieve anybody  will  ever  come  for  it  —  it  's  been  there 
seven  years  now.    Let  's  go  up  and  look  at  it." 

The  girls  romped  upstairs  to  the  great  unused  upper 
story,  where  heaps  of  household  rubbish  obscured  the 
dusty  half-windows.  In  a  corner,  behind  Louise's  baby 
chair  and  an  unfashionable  hat-rack  of  the  old  steering- 
wheel  pattern,  they  found  the  little  brown-painted  tin 
trunk,  corded  up  with  clothes-line. 

"Louise!"  said  Esther,  hastily,  "what  did  you  tell 
her  your  name  was?" 

"I  just  said  'Louise'." 

Esther  pointed  to  the  name  painted  on  the  trunk, 

Louise  Levy. 


THE  TENOR. 


II 

Some- 


"  It  is  the  hand  of  Providence,"  she  said, 
how,  now,  I  'm  sure  you  're  quite  right  to  go." 

And  neither  of  these  conscientious  young  ladies  re- 
flected for  one  minute  on  the  discomfort  which  might  be 
occasioned  to  Madame  Remy  by  the  defection  of  her  new 
servant  a  half-hour  before  dinner-time  on  Saturday  night. 


"Oh,  child,  it's  you,  is  it?"  was  Mme.  Remy's 
greeting  at  twelve  o'clock  on  Saturday.  "  Well,  you  're 
punctual  —  and  you  look  clean.     Now,  are  you  going  to 

break  my  dishes  or  are  you 
going  to  steal   my  rings  ? 
Well,  we  '11  find  out  soon 
enough.      Your  trunk  's 
up  in  your  room.    Go  up 
to  the  servants'  quarters 
—  right  at  the  top  of 
those  stairs  there.    Ask 
for  the  room  that  be- 
longs to  apartment  I  I . 
You  are  to  room  with 
their  girl." 

Louise  was  glad  of  a  moment's  respite.  She  had 
taken  the  plunge;  she  was  determined  to  go  through  to 
the  end.  But  her  heart  would  beat  and  her  hands 
would  tremble.  She  climbed  up  six  flights  of  winding 
stairs,  and  found  herself  weak  and  dizzy  when  she 
reached  the  top  and  gazed  around  her.      She  was  in  a 


SHORT   SIXES." 


great  half-story  room,  eighty  feet  square.  The  most  of 
it  was  filled  with  heaps  of  old  furniture  and  bedding, 
rolls  of  carpet,  of  canvas,  of  oilcloth,  and  odds  and  ends 
of  discarded  or  unused  household  gear  —  the  dust  thick 
over  all.  A  little  space  had  been  left  around  three  sides, 
to  give  access  to  three  rows  of  cell-like  rooms,  in  each 
of  which  the  ceiling  sloped  from  the  very  door  to  a  tiny 
window  at  the  level  of  the  floor.  In  each  room  was  a 
bed,  a  bureau  that  served  for  wash-stand,  a  small  look- 
ing-glass, and  one  or  two  trunks-  Women's  dresses  hung 
on  the  whitewashed  walls.  She 
found  No.  ii,  threw  off, 
desperately,  her  hat  and 
jacket,  and  sunk  down  on 
the  little  brown  tin  trunk, 
all  trembling  from  head 
to  foot. 

"  Hello,"  called  a 
cheery  voice.  She  looked 
up  and  saw  a  girl  in  a 
dirty  calico  dress. 

"  Just  come?  " 
quired  this  person, 
agreeable  informality. 


m- 
with 
She  was 

a  good-looking  large  girl,  with  red  hair 
and  bright  cheeks.    She  leaned  against  the  door-post  and 
polished  her  finger-nails  with  a  little  brush.      Her  hands 
were  shapely. 

"Ain't  got  onto  the  stair-climbing  racket  yet,  eh? 
You  '11  get  used  to  it.    ' Louise  Levy/"  she  read  the  name 


THE  TENOR.  13 

on  the  trunk.  "You  don't  look  like  a  sheeny.  Can't 
tell  nothin'  'bout  names,  can  you?  My  name  's  Slattery. 
You  'd  think  I  was  Irish,  would  n't  you  ?  Well,  I  'm 
straight  Ne'  York.  I  'd  be  dead  before  I  was  Irish.  Born 
here.  Ninth  Ward  an'  next  to  an  engine-house.  How  's 
that  ?  There  's  white  Jews,  too.  I  worked  for  one,  pick- 
in'  sealskins  down  in  Prince  Street.  Most  took  the  lungs 
out  of  me.  But  that  was  n't  why  I  shook  the  biz.  It 
queered  my  hands  —  see  ?  I  'm  goin'  to  be  married  in 
the  Fall  to  a  German  gentleman.  He  ain't  so  Dutch 
when  you  know  him,  though.  He  's  a  grocer.  Drivin' 
now ;  but  he  buys  out  the  boss  in  the  Fall.  How's  that  ? 
He  's  dead  stuck  on  my  hooks,  an'  I  have  to  keep  'em 
lookin'  good.  I  come  here  because  the  work  was  light. 
I  don't  have  to  work  —  only  to  be  doin'  somethin',  see? 
Only  got  five  halls  and  the  lamps.  You  got  a  fam'ly  job, 
I  s'pose?  I  would  n't  have  that.  I  don't  mind  the 
Sooprintendent ;  but  I  'd  be  dead  before  I  'd  be  bossed 
by  a  woman,  see?  Say,  what  fam'ly  did  you  say  you 
was  with  ?  " 

This  stream  of  talk  had  acted  like  a  nerve-tonic  on 
Louise.     She  was  able  to  answer : 

"  M — -Mr.  Remy." 

"Ramy?  —  oh,  lord!  Got  the  job  with  His  Ton- 
sils? Well,  you  won't  keep  it  long.  They  're  meaner  'n 
three  balls,  see  ?  Rent  their  room  up  here  and  chip  in 
with  eleven.  Their  girls  don't  never  stay.  Well,  I  got 
to  step,  or  the  Sooprintendent  '11  be  borin'  my  ear.  Well 
—  so  long  !  " 

But  Louise  had  fled  down  the  stairs.    "His Tonsils" 


i4  "SHORT   SIXES." 

rang  in  her  ears.  What  blasphemy  !  What  sacrilege  ! 
She  could  scarcely  pretend  to  listen  to  Mme.  Remy's 
first  instructions. 

The  household  was  parsimonious.  Louise  washed 
the  caterer's  dishes  — he  made  a  reduction  in  his  price. 
Thus  she  learned  that  a  late  breakfast  took  the  place  of 
luncheon.  She  began  to  feel  what  this  meant.  The  beds 
had  been  made  ;  but  there  was  work  enough.  She  helped 
Mme.  Remy  to  sponge  a  heap  of  faded  finery  —  her 
dresses.  If  they  had  been  his  coats  !  Louise  bent  her 
hot  face  over  the  tawdry  silks  and  satins,  and  clasped 
her  parboiled  little  finger-tips  over  the  wet  sponge.  At 
half-past  three  Mme.  Remy  broke  the  silence. 

"We  must  get  ready  for  Musseer,"  she  said.  An 
ecstatic  joy  filled  Louise's  being.  The  hour  of  her  re- 
ward was  at  hand. 

Getting  ready  for  "Musseer"  proved  to  be  an  ap- 
palling process.  First  they  brewed  what  Mme.  Remy 
called  a  "teaze  Ann."  After  the  tisane,  a  host  of  strange 
foreign  drugs  and  cosmetics  were  marshalled  in  order. 
Then  water  was  set  to  heat  on  a  gas-stove.  Then  a 
little  table  was  neatly  set. 

"Musseer  has  his  dinner  at  half- past  four,"  Ma- 
dame explained.  "  I  don't  take  mine  till  he  's  laid  down 
and  I  've  got  him  off  to  the  concert.  There,  he  's  com- 
ing now.  Sometimes  he  comes  home  pretty  nervous.  If 
he  's  nervous,  don't  you  go  and  make  a  fuss,  do  you 
hear,  child?  " 

The  door  opened,  and  Musseer  entered,  wrapped  in 
a  huge  frogged  overcoat.     There  was  no  doubt  that  he 


THE  TENOR. 


15 


was  nervous.      He  cast  his  hat  upon  the  floor,  as  if  he 
were  Jove  dashing  a  thunderbolt.      Fire  flashed  from  his 
eyes.      He  advanced  upon  his  wife 
and  thrust  a  newspaper  in  her  face 

—  a  little  pinky  sheet,  a  notorious 
blackmailing  publication. 

"Zees,"   he   cried,    "is  your 
work  !  " 

"What    is   it,    now,    Hipleet?" 
demanded  Mine.  Remy. 

"  Vot  it  ees?"  shrieked  the 
tenor.  "  It  ees  ze  history  of  how  zey 
have  heest  me  at  Nice  !  It  ees  all 
zair  —  how  I  have  been  heest  —  in 
zis  sacre  sheet  —  in  zis  hankairchif 
of  infamy  !  And  it  ees  you  zat  have 
told  it  to  zat  devil  of  a  Rastignac  —  traiiresse  !  " 

"Now,  Hipleet,"  pleaded  his  wife,  "if  I  can't 
learn  enough  French  to  talk  with  you,  how  am  I  going 
to  tell  Rastignac  about  your  being  hissed?  " 

This  reasoning  silenced   Mr.  Remy  for  an   instant 

—  an  instant  only. 

"You  vood  have  done  it!"  he  cried,  sticking  out 
his  chin  and  thrusting  his  face  forward. 

"Well,  I  did  n't,"  said  Madame,  "and  nobody 
reads  that  thing,  any  way.  Now,  don't  you  mind  it,  and 
let  me  get  your  things  off,  or  you  '11  be  catching  cold." 

Mr.  Remy  yielded  at  last  to  the  necessity  of  self- 
preservation,  and  permitted  his  wife  to  remove  his 
frogged  overcoat,  and  to   unwind  him  from  a  system  of 


i6  "SHORT   SIXES." 

silk  wraps  to  which  the  Gordian  knot  was  a  slip-noose. 
This  done,  he  sat  down  before  the  dressing-case,  and 
Mine.  Remy,  after  tying  a  bib  around  his  neck,  pro- 
ceeded to  dress  his  hair  and  put  brilliantine  on  his 
moustache.  Her  husband  enlivened  the  operation  by 
reading  from  the  pinky  paper. 

"It  ees  not  gen-air-al-lee  known  —  zat  zees  dees- 
tin-guished  tenor  vos  heest  on  ze  pob-lic  staidj  at  Nice 
- —  in  ze  year  —  " 

Louise  leaned  against  the  wall,  sick,  faint  and 
frightened,  with  a  strange  sense  of  shame  and  degrada- 
tion at  her  heart.      At  last  the  tenor's  eye  fell  on  her. 

"Anozzair  eediot  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"She  ain't  very  bright,  Hipleet,"  replied  his  wife; 
"but  I  guess  she'll  do.  Louise,  open  the  door  —  there  's 
the  caterer." 

Louise  placed  the  dishes  upon  the  table  mechani- 
cally. The  tenor  sat  himself  at  the  board,  and  tucked 
a  napkin  in  his  neck. 

"And  how  did  the  Benediction  Song  go  this  after- 
noon ?  "  inquired  his  wife. 

"  Ze  Benediction?  Ah!  One  encore.  One  on-lee. 
Zese  pigs  ot  Americains.  I  t'row  my  pairls  biffo'  swine. 
Chops  once  more  !  You  vant  to  mordair  me  ?  Vat  do 
zis  mean,  madame  ?  You  ar-r-r-re  in  lig  wiz  my  ene- 
mies.   All  ze  vorlt  is  against  ze  ar-r-r-teest ! " 

The  storm  that  followed  made  the  first  seem  a 
zephyr.  The  tenor  exhausted  his  execratory  vocabulary 
in  French  and  English.  At  last,  by  way  of  a  dramatic 
finale,   he  seized  the  plate  of  chops  and  flung  it  from 


THE  TENOR. 


tf 


him.  He  aimed  at  the  wall ;  but  Frenchmen  do  not 
pitch  well.  With  a  ring  and  a  crash,  plate  and  chops 
went  through  the  broad  window-pane.  In  the  moment 
of  stricken  speechlessness  that  followed,  the  sound  of 
the  final  smash  came  softly  up  from  the  sidewalk. 

"  Ah-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah  !  " 

The  tenor  rose   to   his   feet  with   the    howl   of  an 
anguished  hyena. 

"  Oh,  good  gracious!"  cried  his  wife;  "he  's  going 
to  have  one  of  his  creezes  —  his  creezes  de  nare  ! " 

He  did  have  a  crise  de  nerfs.  "  Ten  dollair  ! "  he 
yelled,  "  for  ten  dollair  of  glass  !  "  He  tore  his  pomaded 
hair;  he  tore  off  his  bib  and  his  neck-tie,  and  for  three 
minutes  without  cessation  he  shrieked  wildly  and  unin- 
telligibly. It  was  possible  to  make  out,  however,  that 
"  arteest "  and  "ten  dollair"  were  the  themes  of  his 
improvisation.  Finally  he  sank  exhausted  into  the 
chair,  and  his  white-faced  wife  rushed  to 
his  side. 

"  Louise  !  "  she  cried,    "  get  the 
foot- tub    out   of  the  closet  while  I 
spray  his  throat,    or  he  can't  sing 
a  note.     Fill  it  up  with  warm  water 
—  1 02    degrees  —  there  's    the 
thermometer  —  and    bathe    his 
feet." 

Trembling  from  head  to 
foot,  Louise  obeyed  her  orders, 
and  brought  the  foot-tub,  full  of  steaming  water.      Then 
she  knelt  down  and  began  to  serve  the  maestro  for  the 


/<?  "  SHORT  SIXES." 

first  time.  She  took  off  his  shoes.  Then  she  looked  at 
his  socks.      Could  she  do  it? 

"  Eediot !  "gasped  the  sufferer, "  make  haste  !  I  die  !" 

"Hold  your  mouth  open,  dear,"  said  Madame,  "I 
have  n't  half  sprayed  you." 

"  Ah  !  you  /"  cried  the  tenor.  "Cat!  Devil!  It  ees 
you  zat  have  killed  me  ! "  And  moved  by  an  access  of 
blind  rage,  he  extended  his  arm,  and  thrust  his  wife 
violently  from  him. 

Louise  rose  to  her  feet,  with  a  hard,  set,  good  old 
New  England  look  on  her  face.  She  lifted  the  tub  of 
water  to  the  level  ot  her  breast,  and  then  she  inverted  it 
on  the  tenor's  head.  For  one  instant  she  gazed  at  the 
deluge,  and  at  the  bath-tub  balanced  on  the  maestro's 
skull  like  a  helmet  several  sizes  too  large  —  then  she 
fled  like  the  wind. 

Once  in  the  servants'  quarters,  she  snatched  her 
hat  and  jacket.      From  below  came  mad  yells  of  rage. 

"I  kill  hare!  give  me  my  knife — give  me  my 
rivvolvare  !      Au  secours  !     Assassin  !  " 

Miss  Slattery  appeared  in  the  doorway,  still  polish- 
ing her  nails. 

"What  have  you  done  to  His  Tonsils?"  she  in- 
quired.    "  He  's  pretty  hot,  this  trip." 

"How  can  I  get  away  from  here?"  cried  Louise. 

Miss  Slattery  pointed  to  a  small  door.  Louise 
rushed  down  a  long  stairway — another — and  yet  others 
—  through  a  great  room  where  there  was  a  smell  of 
cooking  and  a  noise  of  fires  —  past  white-capped  cooks 
and  scullions  —  through  a  long  stone  corridor,  and  out 


THE  TENOR. 


19 


into  the  street.     She  cried  aloud  as  she  saw  Esther's 
face  at  the  window  of  the  coupe. 
She  drove  home  —  cured. 


Owing  to  the 

Sudden  Indisposition 

of 

M.  Remy, 

There  will  be  no 

Concert 

This  Evening. 

Money  Refunded  at  the 

Box  Office. 


COL.  BRERETON'S  AUNTY. 


<o 


^ 


^3 


^ 


"*. 


COL.     BRERETON'S     AUNTY. 

=L,HE  pleasant  smell  of  freshly  turned 
garden-mould  and  of  young  growing 
things  came  in  through  the  open  window 
of  the  Justice  of  the  Peace.  His  nasturtiums 
were  spreading,  pale  and  weedy  —  I  could 
distinguish  their  strange,  acrid  scent  from  the 
odor  of  the  rest  of  the  young  vegetation.  The  tips  of 
the  morning-glory  vines,  already  up  their  strings  to  the 
height  of  a  man's  head,  curled  around  the  window-frame, 
and  beckoned  to  me  to  come  out  and  rejoice  with  them 
in  the  freshness  of  the  mild  June  day.  It  was  pleasant 
enough  inside  the  Justice's  front  parlor,  with  its  bright 
ingrain  carpet,  its  gilt  clock,  and  its  marble-topped 
centre-table.  But  the  Justice  and  the  five  gentlemen 
who  were  paying  him  a  business  call  —  although  it  was 
Sunday  morning — looked,  the  whole  half  dozen  of  them, 
ill  in  accord  with  the  spirit  of  the  Spring  day.  The 
Justice  looked  annoyed.  The  five  assembled  gentlemen 
looked  stern. 

"Well,  as  you  say,"  remarked  the  fat  little  Justice, 
who  was  an  Irishman,  "  if  this  divilment  goes  on  —  " 


s4  "SHORT   SIXES." 

"  It  's  not  a  question  of  going  on,  Mr.  O'Brien," 
broke  in  Alfred  Winthrop ;    "it  has  gone  on  too  long." 

Alfred  is  a  little  inclined  to  be  arrogant  with  the 
unwinthropian  world ;  and,  moreover,  he  was  rushing 
the  season  in  a  very  grand  suit  of  white  flannels.  He 
looked  rather  too  much  of  a  lord  of  creation  for  a  demo- 
cratic community.      Antagonism  lit  the  Justice's  eye. 

"  I  'm  afraid  we  've  got  to  do  it,  O'Brien,"  I  inter- 
posed, hastily.  The  Justice  and  I  are  strong  political 
allies.      He  was  mollified. 

"Well,  well,"  he  assented;  "let 's  have  him  up  and 
see  what  he  's  got  to  say  for  himself.  Mike  !  "  he  shouted 
out  the  window;    "bring  up  Colonel  Brereton  ! " 

Colonel  Brereton  had  appeared  in  our  village  about 
a  year  before  that  Sunday.  Why  he  came,  whence  he 
came,  he  never  deigned  to  say.  But  he  made  no  secret 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  an  unreconstructed  Southron.  He 
had  a  little  money  when  he  arrived  —  enough  to  buy  a 
tiny  one-story  house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  By 
vocation  he  was  a  lawyer,  and,  somehow  or  other,  he 
managed  to  pick  up  enough  to  support  him  in  his  avoca- 
tion, which,  we  soon  found  out,  was  that  of  village 
drunkard.  In  this  capacity  he  was  a  glorious,  picturesque 
and  startling  success.  Saturated  with  cheap  whiskey,  he 
sat  all  day  long  in  the  barroom  or  on  the  porch  of  the 
village  groggery,  discoursing  to  the  neighborhood  loafers 
of  the  days  befo'  the  wah,  when  he  had  a  vast  planta- 
tion in  "Firginia"  —  "and  five  hundred  niggehs,  seh." 

So  long  as  the  Colonel's  excesses  threatened  only 
his  own  liver,  no  one  interfered  with  him.     But  on  the 


COL.  BRERETONS  AUNTY.  25 

night  before  we  called  upon  the  Justice,  the  Colonel, 
having  brooded  long  over  his  wrongs  at  the  hands  of 
the  Yankees,  and  having  made  himself  a  reservoir  of 
cocktails,  decided  to  enter  his  protest  against  the  whole 
system  of  free  colored  labor  by  cutting  the  liver  out 
of  every  negro  in  the  town ;  and  he  had  slightly  lacer- 
ated Winthrop's  mulatto  coachman  before  a  delegation 
of  citizens  fell  upon  him,  and  finding  him  unwilling  to 
relinquish  his  plan,  placed  him  for  the  night  in  the 
lock-up  in  Squire  O'Brien's  cellar. 

We  waited  for  the  Colonel.  From  under  our  feet 
suddenly  arose  a  sound  of  scuffling  and  smothered  im- 
precations. A  minute  later,  Mike,  the  herculean  son  of 
the  Justice,  appeared  in  the  doorway,  bearing  a  very 
small  man  hugged  to  his  breast  as  a  baby  hugs  a  doll. 

"Let  me  down,  seh  !  "  shouted  the  Colonel.  Mike 
set  him  down,  and  he  marched  proudly  into  the  room, 
and  seated  himself  with  dignity  and  firmness  on  the  ex- 
treme edge  of  a  chair. 

The  Colonel  was  very  small  indeed  for  a  man  of  so 
much  dignity.  He  could  not  have  been  more  than  five 
foot  one  or  two;  he  was  slender  —  but  his  figure  was 
shapely  and  supple.  He  was  unquestionably  a  handsome 
man,  with  fine,  thin  features  and  an  aquiline  profile  — 
like  a  miniature  Henry  Clay.  His  hair  was  snow-white 
—  prematurely,  no  doubt  —  and  at  the  first  glance  you 
thought  he  was  clean  shaven.  Then  you  saw  that  there 
was  scarcely  a  hair  on  his  cheeks,  and  that  only  the  finest 
imaginable  line  of  snowy  white  moustaches  curled  down 
his  upper  lip.      His  skin  was  smooth  as  a  baby's  and  of 


26  "SHORT   SIXES." 

the  color  of  old  ivory.  His  teeth,  which  he  was  just 
then  exhibiting  in  a  sardonic  smile,  were  white,  small, 
even.  But  if  he  was  small,  his  carriage  was  large,  and 
military.  There  was  something  military,  too,  about  his 
attire.  He  wore  a  high  collar,  a  long  blue  frock  coat, 
and  tight,  light  gray  trousers  with  straps.  That  is,  the 
coat  had  once  been  blue,  the  trousers  once  light  gray, 
but  they  were  now  of  many  tints  and  tones,  and,  at 
that  exact  moment,  they  had  here  and  there  certain 
peculiar  high  lights  of  whitewash. 

The  Colonel  did  not  wait  to  be  arraigned.  Sweep- 
ing his  black,  piercing  eye  over  our  little  group,  he 
arraigned  us. 

"Well,  gentlemen ,"  with  keen  irony  in  his  tone, 
"  I  reckon  you  think  you  've  done  a  right  smart  thing, 
getting  the  Southern  gentleman  in  a  hole  ?  A  ^ro-dee- 
gious  tine  thing,  I  reckon,  since  it 's  kept  you  away  from 
chu'ch.  Bap/is'  church,  I  believe  ? "  This  was  to  poor 
Canfield,  who  was  suspected  of  having  been  of  that  com- 
munion in  his  youth,  and  of  being  much  ashamed  of  it 
after  his  marriage  to  an  aristocratic  Episcopalian.  "Nice 
Sunday  mo'ning  to  worry  a  Southern  gentleman  !  Gen- 
tleman who  's  owned  a  plantation  that  you  could  stick 
this  hyeh  picayune  town  into  one  co'neh  of!  Owned 
mo'  niggehs  than  you  eveh  saw.  Robbed  of  his  land 
and  his  niggehs  by  you  Yankee  gentlemen.  Drinks  a 
little  wine  to  make  him  fo'get  what  he  's  suffehed.  Gets 
ovehtaken.  Tries  to  avenge  an  insult  to  his  honah. 
Put  him  in  a  felon's  cell  and  whitewash  his  gyarments. 
And  now   you  come  hyeh  —  you  come  hyeh — "    here 


COL.   BRERETONS  AUNTY.  z-j 

his  eye  fell  with  deep  disapproval  upon  Winthrop's  white 
flannels — "you  come  hyeh  in  youh  underclothes,  and 
you  want  to  have  him  held  fo'  Special  Sessions." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Colonel  Brereton,"  Winthrop 
interposed;    "  if  we  can  have  your  promise — " 

"I  will  promise  you  nothing,  seh  ! "  thundered  the 
Colonel,  who  had  a  voice  like  a  church-organ,  whenever 
he  chose  to  use  it;  "I  will  make  no  conventions  with 
you  !  I  will  put  no  restrictions  on  my  right  to  defend 
my  honah.  Put  me  in  youh  felon's  cell.  I  will  rot  in 
youh  infehnal  dungeons;  but  I  will  make  no  conventions 
with  you.  You  can  put  me  in  striped  breeches,  but  you 
cyan't  put  my  honah  in  striped  breeches  !  " 

"That  settles  it,"  said  the  justice. 

"And  all,"  continued  the  Colonel,  oratorically, 
"  and  all  this  hyeh  fuss  and  neglect  of  youh  religious 
duties,  fo'  one  of  the  cheapest  and  most  o'nery  niggehs 
I  eveh  laid  eyes  on.  Why,  I  would  n't  have  given  one 
hundred  dollahs  fo'  that  niggeh  befo'  the  wah.  No, 
seh,  I  give  you  my  wo'd,  that  niggeh  ain't  wo'th  ninety 
dollahs  !  " 

"Mike!"  said  the  Justice,  significantly.  The  Col- 
onel arose  promptly,  to  insure  a  voluntary  exit.  He 
bowed  low  to  Winthrop. 

"  Allow  me  to  hope,  seh,"  he  said,  "  that  you  won't 
catch  cold."  And  with  one  lofty  and  comprehensive 
salute  he  marched  haughtily  back  to  his  dungeon,  fol- 
lowed by  the  towering  Mike. 

The  Justice  sighed.  An  elective  judiciary  has  its 
trials,  like  the  rest  of  us.      It  is  hard  to  commit  a  voter 


SHORT   SIXES." 


of  your  own  party  for  Special  Sessions.  However  — 
"I  '11  drive  him  over  to  Court  in  the  morning,"  said  the 
little  Justice. 


I  was  sitting  on  my  verandah  that  afternoon,  read- 
ing.   Hearing  my  name  softly  spoken,  I   looked  up  and 

saw    the   largest   and    oldest 
negress   I    had   ever    met. 
She  was  at  least  six  feet 
tall,   well-built   but  not 
fat,     full    black,     with 
carefully  dressed  gray 
hair.    1  knew  at  once 
from  her  neat  dress, 
her  well-trained  man- 
ner,  the  easy   defer- 
ence  of   the    curtsey 
she  dropped  me,  that 
she  belonged   to  the 
class    that     used     to 
be  known  as  "house 
darkeys  " —  in  contradistinction  to  the  field  hands. 

"I  understand,  seh,"  she  said,  in  a  gentle,  low 
voice,  "  that  you  gentlemen  have  got  Cunnle  Bre'eton 
jailed?  " 

She  had  evidently  been  brought  up  among  educated 
Southerners,  for  her  grammar  was  good  and  her  pro- 
nunciation correct,  according  to  Southern  standards. 
Only  once  or  twice  did  she  drop  into  negro  talk. 


COL.  BRERETONS  AUNTY.  ag 

I  assented. 

"  How  much  will  it  be,  seh,  to  get  him  out?"  She 
produced  a  fat  roll  of  twenty  and  fifty  dollar  bills.  "  I 
do  fo'  Cunnle  Bre'eton,"  she  explained:  "I  have  always 
done  fo'  him.      I  was  his  Mammy  when  he  was  a  baby." 

I  made  her  sit  down  — -  when  she  did  there  was 
modest  deprecation  in  her  attitude  —  and  I  tried  to  ex- 
plain the  situation  to  her. 

"  You  may  go  surety  for  Colonel  Brereton,"  I  said; 
"but  he  is  certain  to  repeat  the  offense." 

"No,  seh,"  she  replied,  in  her  quiet,  firm  tone; 
"the  Cunnle  won't  make  any  trouble  when  I  'm  here  to 
do  fo'  him." 

"  You  were  one  of  his  slaves?" 

"  No,  seh.  Cunnle  Bre'eton  neveh  had  any  slaves, 
seh.  His  father,  Majah  Bre'eton,  he  had  slaves  one  time, 
I  guess,  but  when  the  Cunnle  was  bo'n,  he  was  playing 
kyards  fo'  a  living,  and  he  had  only  me.  When  the  Cun- 
nle's  mother  died,  Majah  Bre'eton  he  went  to  Mizzoura, 
and  he  put  the  baby  in  my  ahms,  and  he  said  to  me, 
'  Sabrine,'  he  sez,  'you  do  fo'  him.'  And  I  've  done  fo' 
him  eveh  since.  Sometimes  he  gets  away  from  me,  and 
then  he  gets  kind  o'  wild.  He  was  in  Sandusky  a  year, 
and  in  Chillicothe  six  months,  and  he  was  in  Tiffin  once, 
and  one  time  in  a  place  in  the  state  of  Massachusetts  — 
I  disremembeh  the  name.  This  is  the  longest  time  he 
eveh  got  away  from  me.  But  I  always  find  him,  and 
then  he  's  all  right." 

"But  you  have  to  deal  with  a  violent  man." 

"The  Cunnle  won't  be  violent  with  me,  seh." 


jo  "SHORT   SIXES." 

"But  you  're  getting  old,  Aunty  —  how  old?" 

"  I  kind  o'  lost  count  since  I  was  seventy-one,  seh. 
But  I  'm  right  spry,  yet." 

"Well,  my  good  woman,"  I  said,  decisively,  "I 
can't  take  the  responsibility  of  letting  the  Colonel  go  at 
large  unless  you  give  me  some  better  guarantee  of  your 
ability  to  restrain  him.  What  means  have  you  of  keep- 
ing him  in  hand?" 

She  hesitated  a  long  time,  smoothing  the  folds  of 
her  neat  alpaca  skirt  with  her  strong  hands.  Then 
she  said : 

"Well,  seh,  I  would  n't  have  you  say  any  thing 
about  it,  fo'  feah  of  huhting  Cunnle  Bre'eton's  feelings; 
but  when  he  gets  that  way,  I  jes'  nachully  tuhn  him  up 
and  spank  him.  I  've  done  it  eveh  since  he  was  a  baby," 
she  continued,  apologetically,  "and  it's  the  only  way. 
But  you  won't  say  any  thing  about  it,  seh  ?  The  Cunnle's 
powerful  sensitive." 

I  wrote  a  brief  note  to  the  Justice.  I  do  not  know 
what  legal  formalities  he  dispensed  with ;  but  that  after- 
noon the  Colonel  was  free.  Aunt  Sabrine  took  him 
home,  and  he  went  to  bed  for  two  days  while  she  washed 
his  clothes.  The  next  week  he  appeared  in  a  complete 
new  outfit  —  in  cut  and  color  the  counterpart  of  its 
predecessor. 


Here  began  a  new  era  for  the  Colonel.  He  was  no 
longer  the  town  drunkard.  Aunty  Sabrine  "allowanced" 
him  —  one  cocktail  in  the  "mo'ning:"  a  "ho'n"  at  noon, 


COL.   BRERETONS  AUNTY.  jt 

and  one  at  night.  On  this  diet  he  was  a  model  of 
temperance.  If  occasionally  he  essayed  a  drinking  bout, 
Aunty  Sabrine  came  after  him  at  eve,  and  led  him  home. 
From  my  window  I  sometimes  saw  the  steady  big  figure 
and  the  wavering  little  one  going  home  over  the  crest  of 
the  hill,  equally  black  in  their  silhouettes  against  the 
sunset  sky. 

What  happened  to  the  Colonel  we  knew  not.  No 
man  saw  him  for  two  days.  Then  he  emerged — with 
unruffled  dignity.  The  two  always  maintained  genuine 
Southern  relations.  He  called  her  his  damn  black 
nigger  —  and  would  have  killed  any  man  who  spoke  ill 
of  her.  She  treated  him  with  the  humble  and  deferen- 
tial familiarity  of  a  "mammy"  toward  "  young  mahse." 

For  herself,  Aunty  Sabrine  won  the  hearts  of  the 
town.  She  was  an  ideal  washerwoman,  an  able  tem- 
porary cook  in  domestic  interregna,  a  tender  and  wise 
nurse,  and  a  genius  at  jam  and  jellies.  The  Colonel, 
too,  made  money  in  his  line,  and  put  it  faithfully  into 
the  common  fund. 

In  March  of  the  next  year,  I  was  one  of  a  Reform 
Town  Committee,  elected  to  oust  the  usual  local  ring. 
We  discharged  the  inefficient  Town  Counsel,  who  had 
neglected  our  interests  in  a  lot  of  suits  brought  by  swind- 
ling road-contractors.  Aunty  Sabrine  came  to  me,  and 
solemnly  nominated  Colonel  Brereton  for  the  post.  "He 
is  sho'ly  a  fine  loyyeh,"  she  said. 

I  know  not  whether  it  was  the  Great  American 
sense  of  humor,  or  the  Great  American  sense  of  fairness, 
but  we  engaged  the  Colonel,  conditionally. 


."-' 


'SHORT  sixes: 


He  was  a  positive,  a  marvelous,  an  incredible  suc- 
cess, and  he  won  every  suit.  Perhaps  he  did  not  know 
much  law;  but  he  was  the  man  of  men  for  country 
judges  and  juries.  Nothing  like  his  eloquence  had  ever 
before  been  heard  in  the  county.  He  argued,  he  cajoled, 
he  threatened,  he  pleaded,  he  thundered,  he  exploded, 
he  confused,  he  blazed,  he  fairly  dazzled  —  for  silence 
stunned  you  when  the  Colonel  ceased  to  speak,  as  the 
lightning  blinds  your  eyes  long  after  it  has  vanished. 

The  Colonel  was  utterly  incapable  of  seeing  any  but 
his  own  side  of  the  case.  I  remember  a  few  of  his 
remarks  concerning  Finnegan,  the  contractor,  who  was 
suing  for  $31.27  payments  withheld. 
"  Fohty  yahds  !  "  the  Colonel  roar- 
ed: "  fohty  yahds  !  This  hyeh  man 
Finnegan,  this  hyeh  cock-a-doodle- 
doo,  he  goes  along  this  hyeh  road, 
and  he  casts  his  eye  oveh  this  hyeh 
excavation,  and  he  comes  hyeh  and 
sweahs  it  's  fohty  yahds  good  meas- 
ure. Does  he  take  a  tape  measure 
and  measure  it  ?  NO  !  Does  he  even 
pace  it  off  with  those  hyeh  corkscrew 
legs  of  his  that  he  's  trying  to  hide 
under  his  chaiah  ?  NO  !  !  He  says, 
'  I  'm  Finnegan,  and  this  hyeh  's  fohty 
yahds,'  and  off  he  sashays  up  the  hill, 
wondering  wheah  Finnegan  's  going  to 
bring  up  when  he  's  walked  off  the  topmost  peak  of 
the  snow-clad  Himalayas  of  human  omniscience  !     And 


COL.  BRERETOMS  AUNTY.  33 

this  hyeh  man,  this  hyeh  insult  to  humanity  in  a  papeh 
collah,  he  comes  hyeh,  to  this  august  tribunal,  and  he 
asks  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  to  let  him  rob  you  of 
the  money  you  have  earned  in  the  sweat  of  youh  brows, 
to  take  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of  the  children 
whom  youh  patient  and  devoted  wives  have  bohne  to 
you  in  pain  and  anguish  —  but  I  say  to  you,  gen — tel — 
men  — (suddenly  exploding)  HIS  PAPEH  COLLAH 
SHALL  ROAST  IN  HADES  BEFO'  I  WILL  BE  A 
PAHTY  TO  THIS   HYEH   INFAMY!" 

Finnegan  was  found  in  hiding  in  his  cellar  when  his 
counsel  came  to  tell  him  that  he  could  not  collect  his 
$31.27.  "  Bedad,  is  that  all?"  he  gasped;  "I  fought 
I  'd  get  six  mont's." 

People  flocked  from  miles  about  to  hear  the  Colonel. 
Recalcitrant  jurymen  were  bribed  to  service  by  the  pro- 
mise of  a  Brereton  case  on  the  docket.  His  perform- 
ances were  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  free  show,  and  a 
verdict  in  his  favor  was  looked  upon  as  a  graceful  gra- 
tuity. 

He  made  money  —  and  he  gave  it  meekly  to  Aunty 
Sabrine. 


It  was  the  night  of  the  great  blizzard;  but  there 
was  no  sign  of  cold  or  wind  when  I  looked  out,  half-an- 
hour  after  midnight,  before  closing  my  front  door. 
I  heard  the  drip  of  water  from  the  trees,  I  saw  a  faint 
mist  rising  from  the  melting  snow.  At  the  foot  of  my 
lawn  I  dimly  saw  the  Colonel's  familar  figure  marching 


34 


SHORT   SIXES." 


homeward  from  some  political  meeting  preliminary  to 
Tuesday's  election.  His  form  was  erect,  his  step  steady. 
He  swung  his  little  cane  and  whistled  as  he  walked.  I 
was  proud  of  the  Colonel. 

An  hour  later  the  storm  was  upon  us.  By  noon  of 
Monday,  Alfred  Winthrop's  house,  two  hundred  yards 
away,  might  as  well  have  been  two  thousand,  so  far  as 
getting  to  it,  or  even  seeing  it,  was  concerned.  Tuesday 
morning  the  snow  had  stopped,  and  we  looked  out  over 
a  still  and  shining  deluge  with  sparkling  fringes  above 
the  blue  hollows  of  its  frozen  waves.  Across  it  roared  an 
icy  wind,  bearing  almost  invisible  diamond  dust  to  fill 
irritated  eyes  and  throats.  The  election  was  held  that 
day.  The  result  was  to  be  expected.  All  the  "hard" 
citizens  were  at  the  polls.      Most  of  the  reformers  were 


COL.   BREHETON-S  AUNTY.  jj 

stalled  in  railroad  trains.  The  Reform  Ticket  failed  of 
re-election,  and  Colonel  Brereton's  term  of  office  was 
practically  at  an  end. 

I  was  outdoors  most  of  the  day,  and  that  night, 
when  I  awoke  about  three  o'clock,  suddenly  and  with  a 
shock,  thinking  I  had  heard  Aunty  Sabrine's  voice  cry- 
ing: "  Cunnle  !  wheah  are  you,  Cunnle?"  my  exhausted 
brain  took  it  for  the  echo  of  a  dream.  I  must  have 
dozed  for  an  hour  before  I  sprang  up  with  a  certainty 
in  my  mind  that  I  had  heard  her  voice  in  very  truth. 
Then  I  hurried  on  my  clothes,  and  ran  to  Alfred  Win- 
throp's.  He  looked  incredulous ;  but  he  got  into  his 
boots  like  a  man.  We  found  Aunty  Sabrine,  alive  but 
unconscious,  on  the  crest  of  the  hill.  When  we  had 
secured  an  asylum  for  her,  we  searched  for  the  Colonel. 
The  next  day  we  learned  that  he  had  heard  the  news  of 
the  election  and  had  boarded  a  snow-clearing  train  that 
was  returning  to  the  Junction. 

It  was  a  week  before  Aunty  Sabrine  recovered. 
When  I  asked  her  if  she  was  going  to  look  for  the  Colo- 
nel, she  answered  with  gentle  resignation : 

"  No,  seh.  I  'm  'most  too  old.  I  '11  stay  hyeh, 
wheah  he  knows  wheah  to  find  me.      He  '11  come  afteh 

me,  sho'." 

***** 

Sixteen  months  passed,  and  he  did  not  come. 
Then,  one  evening,  a  Summer  walk  took  me  by  the  little 
house.      I  heard  a  voice  I  could  not  forget. 

"Hyeh,  you  black  niggeh,  get  along  with  that  sup- 
peh,  or  I  come  in  theah  and  cut  youh  damn  haid  off!" 

4 


36 


short  sixes: 


-k 


Looking  up,   I  saw  Colonel  Brereton,   a  little    the 
worse  for  wear,  seated  on  the  snake  fence.      No  ....  he 
was  not  seated ;   he  was  hitched  on  by  the 
crook  of  his  knees,  his  toes  braced  against 
the  inside  of  the  lower  rail.    His  coat- 
tails  hung  in  the  vacant  air. 

He  descended,  a  little  stiffly,  I 
thought,  and  greeted  me  cordially, 
with  affable  dignity.  His  manner 
somehow  implied  that  it  was  /  who 
had  been  away. 

He  insisted  on  my  coming  into 
his  front  yard  and  sitting  down  on 
the  bench  by  the  house,  while  he  con- 
descendingly and  courteously  inquired  after 
the  health  of  his  old  friends  and  neighbors.  I  stayed 
until  supper  was  announced.  The  Colonel  was  always 
the  soul  of  hospitality;  but  on  this  occasion  he  did  not 
ask  me  to  join  him.  And  I  reflected,  as  I  went  away, 
that  although  he  had  punctiliously  insisted  on  my  sitting 
down,  the  Colonel  had  remained  standing  during  our 
somewhat  protracted  conversation. 


A  ROUND-UP. 


V 


yo*. 


WBmm 


>f/ 


«  She  was  beautiful  as  the  Queen  of  Sheba  was  beautiful:1 


A    ROUND-UP. 

I. 
Y\  7hen  Rhodora  Boyd  —  Rhodora  Pennington  that 
'  *  was  —  died  in  her  little  house,  with  no  one  near 
her  but  one  old  maid  who  loved  her,  the  best  society 
of  the  little  city  of  Trega  Falls  indulged  in  more  or  less 
complacent  reminiscence. 

Except  to  Miss  Wimple,  the  old  maid,  Rhodora  had 
been  of  no  importance  at  all  in  Trega  for  ten  long  years, 
and  yet  she  had  once  given  Trega  society  the  liveliest 
year  it  had  ever  known.  (I  should  tell  you  that  Trega 
people  never  mentioned  the  Falls  in  connection  with 
Trega.  Trega  was  too  old  to  admit  any  indebtedness 
to   the  Falls.) 

Rhodora  Pennington  came  to  Trega  with  her  invalid 
mother  as  the  guest  of  her  uncle,  the  Commandant  at 
the  Fort  —  for  Trega  was  a  garrison  town.  She  was  a 
beautiful  girl.  I  do  not  mean  a  pretty  girl:  there  were 
pretty  girls  in  Trega  —  several  of  them.  She  was  beau- 
tiful as  the  Queen  of  Sheba  was  beautiful  —  grand, 
perfect,  radiantly  tawny  of  complexion,  without  a  flaw 
Qr  a  failing  in  her  pulchritude  —  almost  too  fine  a  being 


4o  "SHORT  SIXES.' 

for  family  use,  except  that  she  had  plenty  of  hot  woman's 
blood  in  her  veins,  and  was  an  accomplished,  delightful, 
impartial  flirt. 

All  the  men  turned  to  her  with  such  prompt  unani- 
mity that  all  the  girls  of  Trega's  best  society  joined 
hands  in  one  grand  battle  for  their  prospective  altars 
and  hearths.  From  the  June  day  when  Rhodora  came, 
to  the  Ash  Wednesday  of  the  next  year  when  her  en- 
gagement was  announced,  there  was  one  grand  battle, 
a  dozen  girls  with  wealth  and  social  position  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  ground  to  help  them,  all  pitted  against  one 
garrison  girl,  with  not  so  much  as  a  mother  to  back  her 
—  Mrs.  Pennington  being  hopelessly  and  permanently 
on  the  sick-list. 

Trega  girls  who  had  never  thought  of  doing  more 
than  wait  at  their  leisure  for  the  local  young  men  to 
marry  them  at  their  leisure  now  went  in  for  accomplish- 
ments of  every  sort.  They  rode,  they  drove,  they  danced 
new  dances,  they  read  Browning  and  Herbert  Spencer, 
they  sang,  they  worked  hard  at  archery  and  lawn-tennis, 
they  rowed  and  sailed  and  fished,  and  some  of  the  more 
desperate  even  went  shooting  in  the  Fall,  and  in  the 
Winter  played  billiards  and  —  penny  ante.  Thus  did 
they,  in  the  language  of  a  somewhat  cynical  male  ob- 
server, back  Accomplishments  against  Beauty. 

The  Shakspere  Club  and  the  Lake  Picnic,  which 
had  hitherto  divided  the  year  between  them,  were  sub- 
merged in  the  flood  of  social  entertainments.  Balls  and 
parties  followed  one  another.  Trega's  square  stone 
houses   were    lit    up    night   after  night,  and  the  broad 


A  ROUND-UP. 


P 


moss-grown  gardens  about  them  were  made  trim  and 
presentable,  and  Chinese  lanterns  turned  them  into  a 
fairy-land  for  young  lovers. 

It  was  a  great  year  for  Trega ! 
The  city  had  been  dead,  commer- 
cially, ever  since  the    New  York 
Central  Railroad  had  opened  up 
the  great  West;    but  the  unpre- 
cedented flow  of  champagne  and 
Apollinaris  actually  started  a  little 
business  boom,  based  on  the  in- 
ferable wealth  of  Trega,  and  two 
or    three    of    Trega's    remaining 
firms  went   into   bankruptcy   be- 
cause of  the  boom.    And  Rhodora 
Pennington  did  it  all. 

Have  you  ever  seen  the  end  of  a  sham-fight  ?  You 
have  been  shouting  and  applauding,  and  wasting  enough 
enthusiasm  for  a  foot-ball  match.  And  now  it  is  all 
finished,  and  nothing  has  been  done,  and  you  go  home 
somewhat  ashamed  of  yourself,  and  glad  only  that  the 
blue- coated  participants  must  feel  more  ashamed  of 
themselves ;  and  the  smell  of  the  villainous  saltpetre, 
that  waked  the  Berserker  in  your  heart  an  hour  ago, 
is  now  noisome  and  disgusting,  and  makes  you  cough 
and  sneeze. 

Even  so  did  the  girls  of  Trega's  best  society  look 
each  in  the  face  of  the  other,  when  Ash  Wednesday 
ended  that  nine  months  of  riot,  and  ask  of  each  other, 
"  What  has  it  all  been  about  ?  " 


42  "SHORT   SIXES." 

True,  there  were  nine  girls  engaged  to  be  married, 
and  engagement  meant  marriage  in  Trega.  Alma  Lyle 
was  engaged  to  Dexter  Townsend,  Mary  Waite  to  John 
Lang,  Winifred  Peters  to  McCullom  Mcintosh,  Ellen 
Humphreys  to  George  Lister,  Laura  Visscher  to  Wil- 
liam Jans,  (Oranje  boven  !  —  Dutch  blood  stays  Dutch,) 
Millicent  Smith  to  Milo  Smith,  her  cousin,  Olive  Cregier 
to  Aleck  Sloan,  Aloha  Jones,  (niece  of  a  Sandwich  Is- 
lands missionary,)  to  Parker  Hall,  and  Rhodora  Pen- 
nington to  Charley  Boyd. 

But  all  of  these  matches,  save  the  last,  would  have 
been  made  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things.  The  pre- 
destination of  propinquity  would  have  settled  that.  And 
even  if  Ellen  Humphreys  had  married  John  Lang  in- 
stead of  George  Lister,  and  George  Lister  had  wedded 
Mary  Waite  —  why,  there  would  have  been  no  great 
difference  to  admire  or  to  deplore.  The  only  union  of 
the  nine  which  came  as  a  surprise  to  the  community  was 
the  engagement  of  Rhodora  to  Charley  Boyd.  The 
beauty  of  the  season  had  picked  up  the  one  crooked 
stick  in  the  town — a  dissolute,  ne'er-do-well  hanger-on 
of  Trega's  best  society,  who  would  never  have  seen  a 
dinner-card  if  he  had  not  been  a  genius  at  amateur 
theatricals,  an  artist  on  the  banjo,  and  a  half-bred 
Adonis. 

There  the  agony  ended  for  the  other  girls,  and  there 
it  began  for  Rhodora  Boyd.  In  less  than  a  year,  Boyd 
had  deserted  her.  The  Commandant  was  transferred  to 
the  Pacific  Coast.  Rhodora  moved,  with  her  mother, 
bed-ridden  now,  into  a  little  house  in  the  unfashionadle 


A  ROUND-UP. 


43 


outskirts  of  Trega.  There  she  nursed  the  mother  until 
the  poor  bed-ridden  old  lady  died.  Rhodora  supported 
them  both  by  teaching  music  and  French  at  the  Trega 
Seminary,  down  by  the  Falls.  Morning  and  evening  she 
went  out  and  back  on  that  weary, 
jingling  horse-car  line.  She  re- 
ceived the  annual  visits  that  her 
friends  paid  her,  inspired  by 
something  between  courtesy 
and  charity,  with  her  old 
stately  simplicity  and 
imperturbable  calm ; 
and  no  one  of  them 
could  feel  sure  that 
she  was  conscious  of 
their  triumph  or  of 
her  degradation.  And 
she  kept  the  best  part 
of  her  stately  beauty  to 

the  very  last.  In  any  other  town  she  would  have  been 
taught  what  divorce-courts  were  made  for;  but  Trega 
society  was  Episcopalian,  and  that  communion  is  health- 
ily and  conservatively  monogamous. 

And  so  Rhodora  Boyd,  that  once  was  Rhodora  Pen- 
nington, died  in  her  little  house,  and  her  pet  old  maid 
closed  her  eyes.  And  there  was  an  end  of  Rhodora. 
Not  quite  an  end,  though. 


II. 

Scene.  — The  Public  Library  of  Trega.    Mrs.  George 

Lister  and  Mrs.  John   Lang  are  seated  in  the 

Rotunda.    Mr.  LlBRIVER,  the  Librarian,  advances 

to  them  with  books  in  his  hands. 

Mrs.  Lister. — Ah,  here  comes  Mr.  Libriver,  with  my 

"Intellectual  Life."     Thank  you,  Mr.  Libriver — you 

are  always  so  kind  ! 

MRS.  Lang. —  And  Mr.   Libriver  has   brought  me   my 

"Status  of  Woman."     Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Libriver. 

Mr.  Libriver,   a  thin  young  man  in  a  linen  duster, 

retires,  blushing. 
Mrs.   Lister. —  Mr.  Libriver  does  so  appreciate  women 
who  are  free   from   the  bondage  of  the  novel.      Did 
you  hear  about  poor  Rhodora's  funeral? 


A  ROUND-UP.  45 

MRS.  Lang  (with  a  sweeping  grasp  at  the  intellectual 
side  of  the  conversation). —  Oh,  I  despise  love-stories. 
In  the  church  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  heard.  (Sweetly).  Dr. 
Homly  told  me.  Does  n't  it  seem  just  a  little  — 
ostentatious  ? 

MRS.  Lister. —  Ostentatious  —  but,  do  you  know,  my 
dear,  there  are  to  be  eight  pall-bearers ! 

Mrs.  Lang  (turning  defeat  into  victory). — No,  I  did 
not  know.  I  don't  suppose  that  ridiculous  old  maid, 
that  Miss  Wimple,  who  seems  to  be  conducting  the 
affair,  dared  to  tell  that  to  Dr.  Homly.  And  who 
are  they  ? 

MRS.  Lister  (with  exceeding  sweetness). — Oh,  I  don't 
know,  dear.  Only  I  met  Mr.  Townsend,  and  he  told 
me  that  Dr.  Homly  had  just  told  him  that  he  was 
one  of  the  eight. 

Mrs.  Lister. —  Dexter  Townsend  !  Why,  it 's  scandal- 
ous. Everybody  knows  that  he  proposed  to  her  three 
times  and  that  she  threw  him  over.  It  's  an  insult 
to  —  to  — 

Mrs.  Lang. — To  poor  dear  Alma  Townsend.  I  quite 
agree  with  you.  I  should  like  to  know  how  she  feels 
—  if  she  understands  what  it  means. 

Mrs.  Lister. — Well,  if  I  were  in  her  place  — 

Enter  Mrs.  Dexter  Townsend. 

Mrs.  Lang.     )  „.,       .,       , 
}  Why,  Alma ! 
Mrs.  Lister.  ) 

Mrs.  Townsend. — Why,   Ellen!     Why,   Mary!     Oh, 

I  'm  so  glad  to  meet  you  both.      I  want  you  to  lunch 

with  me  to-morrow  at  one  o'clock.     I  do  so  hate  to  be 


46  "SHORT   SIXES." 

left  alone.  And  poor  Rhodora  Pennington  —  Mrs. 
Boyd,  I  mean  —  her  funeral  is  at  noon,  and  our  three 
male  protectors  will  have  to  go  to  the  cemetery,  and 
Mr.  Townsend  is  just  going  to  take  a  cold  bite  before 
he  goes,  and  so  I  'm  left  to  lunch  — 

Mrs.  Lang  (coldly).  —  I  don't  think  Mr.  Lang  will  go 
to  the  cemetery  -— 

Mrs.  Lister. — There  is  no  reason  why  Mr.  Lister  — 

Mrs.  Townsend. — But,  don't  you  know?  —  They're 
all  to  be  pall-bearers !      They  can't  refuse,    of  course. 

Mrs.  Lang  (icily).  —  Oh,  no,  certainly  not. 

Mrs.  Lister  (below  zero).  —  I  suppose  it  is  an  unavoid- 
able duty. 

Mrs.  Lang. — Alma,  is  that  your  old  Surah?  What  did 
you  do  to  it? 

Mrs.  Lister.  —  They  do  dye  things  so  wonderfully 
nowadays  ! 


Scene.  —  A    Verandah    in  front  of  Mr.    McCullom 
McIntosh's  house.     Mrs.  McCullom  McIntosh 
seated,  with  fancy  work.     To  her,  enter  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Jans  and  Mr.  Milo  Smith. 
Mrs.  McIntosh  (with  effusion). —  Oh,   Mr.  Jans,  I'm 
so  delighted  to  see  you  !    And  Mr.  Smith,  too  !   I  never 
expect  to  see  you  busy  men  at  this  time  in  the  after- 
noon.   And    how   is   Laura?  —  and   Millicent?     Now 
don't  tell  me  that  you  've  come  to  say  that  you  can't 
go  fishing  with  Mr.  Mcintosh  to-morrow !     He  '11  be 
so  disappointed ! 


Mr.  Jans. — Well,  the  fact  is — • 

Mrs.  McIntosh.  —  You  haven't  been  invited  to  be  one 
of  poor  Rhodora  Boyd's  pall-bearers,  have  you?  That 
would  be  too  absurd.  They  say  she  's  asked  a  regular 
party  of  her  old  conquests.  Mr.  Libriver  just  passed 
here  and  told  me  —  Mr.  Lister  and  John  Lang  and 
Dexter  Townsend  — 

Mr.  Jans.  —  Yes,  and  me. 

Mrs.  McIntosh. —  Oh,  Mr.  Jans!  And  they  do  say  — 
at  least  Mr.  Libriver  says  — -  that  she  has  n't  asked  a 
man  who  had  n't  proposed  to  her. 

Mr.  Jans  (Dutchily).  —  1  d'no.    But  I  'm  asked,  and  — 

Mrs.  McIntosh. — You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  Mr. 
Smith  is  asked,  too  ?  Oh,  that  would  be  too  impossible. 
You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Smith,  that  you  fur- 
nished one  of  Rhodora's  scalps  ten  years  ago? 

Mr.  Smith. —  You  ought  to  know,  Mrs.  Mcintosh.  Or 
—  no  —  perhaps  not.  You  and  Mac  were  to  windward 
of  the  centre-board  on  Townsend's  boat  when  /  got 
the  mitten.  I  suppose  you  could  n't  hear  us.  But  we 
were  to  leeward,  and  Miss  Pennington  said  she  hoped 
all  proposals  did  n't  echo. 

Mrs.  McIntosh. — The  wretched  c but  she's  dead. 

Well,  I  'm  thankful  Mac — Mr.  Mcintosh  never  could 
abide  that  girl.  He  always  said  she  was  horribly  bad 
form  —  poor  thing,  I  ought  n't  to  speak  so,  I  suppose. 
She  's  been  punished  enough. 

Mr.  Smith. —  I'm  glad  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Mcintosh. 
I  hope  you  won't  feel  it  necessary  to  advise  Mac  to 
refuse  her  last  dying  request. 


4* 


SHORT   SIXES." 


Mrs.  McIntosh. — What  — 

Mr.  Smith. —  Oh,   well,   the  fact  is, 

Mrs.  Mcintosh,  we  only  stopped  in 

to   say  that  as  Mcintosh    and  all 

the    rest  of  us  are   asked  to  be 

pall  -  bearers    at     Mrs.     Boyd's 

funeral,  you  might  ask  Mac  if 

it  would  n't  be  just  as  well  to 

postpone  the    fishing   party  for 

a  week  or  so.      If  you  remember 

—  will  you  be  so  kind?     Thank  you,  good  afternoon. 

Mr  Jans. — Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Mcintosh. 


Scene. —  The  Linen  Closet,  at  the  end  of  a  sunny  cor- 
ridor in  Mr.  Alexander  Sloan's  house.     Mrs. 
Sloan  inspecting  her  sheets  and  pillow-cases.    To 
her,  enter  Bridget,  her  housemaid,  with  a  basket 
full  of  linen,    the    Trega    Evening   Eagle  on  the 
top,  folded. 
Mrs.  Sloan. — Why,  that  surely  is  n't  one  of  the  new 
napkins  !  —  oh,  it 's  the  evening  paper.      Dear  me  ! 
how  near-sighted  I  am  getting  !      (Takes  it  and  opens 
it.)  You  may  put  those  linen  sheets  on  the  top  shelf, 
Bridget.      We  '11  hardly  need  them   again    this   Fall. 
Oh,    Bridget  —  here  's    poor    Mrs.    Boyd's    obituary. 
You  used  to  live  at  Colonel  Pennington's  before  she 
was  married,  did  n't  you  ? 
Bridget. —  I  did  that,  Mum. 
Mrs.  Sloan  (reading). — "Mrs.  Boyd's  pall-bearers  are 


A  ROUND-UP. 


49 


fitly  chosen  from  the  most  distinguished  and  prominent 
citizens  of  Trega."  I  'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  they 
should  be.  (Reads.)  "Those  invited  to  render  the 
last  honors  to  the  deceased  are  Mr.  George  Lister  — " 

Bridget. —  'T  is  he  was  foriver  at  the  house. 

Mrs.  Sloan ' (reads). — "Mr.  John  Lang —  " 

Bridget. —  And  him. 

MRS    Sloan  (reads).  —  "  Mr.    Dexter 
Townsend  —  " 

Bridget. —  And  him,  too. 

Mrs.  Sloan  (reads).  —  "  Mr.  Mc- 
intosh,   Mr   William  Jans,    Mr. 
Milo  Smith  —  " 

Bridget. — And  thim.  Mr.  Smith 
was  her  siventh. 

Mrs.  Sloan. —  Hex  what? 

Bridget. —  Her  sivinth.  There 
was  eight  of  thim  proposed  to 
her  in  the  wan  week. 

MRS  Sloan. —  Why,  Bridget!  How  can  you  possibly 
know  that? 

Bridget. —  Sure,  what  does  it  mean  whin  a  gintleman 
calls  twice  in  th'  wake  an'  thin  stops  like  he  was 
shot.  An'  who  is  the  eight'  gintleman  to  walk  wid 
the  corpse,  Mum? 

Mrs.  Sloan. —  That  is  all,  Bridget.  And  those  pillow- 
cases look  shockingly  !  I  never  saw  such  ironing ! 
(Exit,  hastily  and  sternly.) 

Bridget  (sola). —  Only  siven  of  thim.  Saints  bless  us! 
The  pore  lady  '11  go  wan-sided  to  her  grave ! 


"Sr**^' 


s° 


SHORT  SIXES." 


Scene. —  The  Private    Office  of  Mr.   Parker  HalL. 
Mr.  Hall  writing.      To  him,  enter  Mr.      Aleck 
Sloan. 
Mr.  Sloan.  —  Ah,  there,  Parker! 
Mr.   Hall. —  Ah,    there,    Aleck!       What    brings  you 

around  so  late  in  the  day  ? 
Mr.  Sloan.  — I  just  thought  you  might  like  to  hear  the 

names  of  the  fellows   Rhodora  Pennington  chose  for 

her  pall-bearers.      (Produces  list.) 
MR.  Hall  (sighs). —  Poor  Rho- 
dora !   Too  bad  !    Fire  ahead. 
Mr.  Sloan  (reads  list). — 

"  George  Lister." 
Mr.  Hall. — Ah! 
Mr.  Sloan  (reads). — 

"  John  Lang." 
Mr.  Hall.—  Oh ! 
Mr.  Sloan  (reads). — 

"  Dexter  Townsend." 
Mr.  Hall.— Well ! 
Mr.   Sloan  (reads). —  "Mc- 

Cullom  Mcintosh." 
Mr.  Hall. —  Say  !  — 
Mr.  Sloan  (reads). —  "William  Jans." 
Mr.  Hall. — The  Deuce  ! 
Mr.  Sloan  (reads). —  "  Milo  Smith." 
Mr.  Hall. —  Great  Caesar's  ghost!  This  is  getting  very 

personal ! 
Mr.  Sloan. — Yes.     (Reads,  nervously.)     "Alexander 

Sloan." 


A  ROUND-UP. 


5t 


Mr.  Hall. — Whoo-o-o-o-up  !     You  too? 

Mr.  SLOAN  (reads). —  "  Parker  Hall." 
(A  long  silence.) 

Mr.  Hall  (faintly).  —  Oh,  lord,  she  rounded  us  up, 
did  n't  she?  Say,  Parker,  can't  this  thing  be  sup- 
pressed, somehow? 

Mr.  Sloan. —  It 's  in  the  evening  paper. 
(Another  long  silence.) 

Mr.  Hall  (desperately). —  Come  out  and  have  a  bottle 
with  me  ? 

Mr.  Sloan. —  I  can't.  I  'm  going  down  to  Bitts's  stable 
to  buy  that  pony  that  Mrs.  Sloan  took  such  a  shine  to 
a  month  or  so  ago. 

Mr.  Hall.  —  If  I  could  get  out  of  this  for  a  pony  — 
Oh,  lord! 


THE  TWO   CHURCHES    OF 
'QUAWKET. 


THE    TWO    CHURCHES    OF    'QUAWKET. 


rrjHE  Reverend  Colton  M. 
PURSLY,  of  Aquawket, 
(commonly  pronounced  'Ouaw- 
ket,)  looked  out  of  his  study 
window  over  a  remarkably 
pretty  New  England  prospect, 
stroked  his  thin,  grayish  side- 
whiskers,  and  sighed  deeply. 
He  was  a  pale,  sober,  ill-dressed 
Congregationalist  minister  of 
forty -two  or  three.  He  had  eyes 
of  willow-pattern  blue,  a  large  nose, 
and  a  large  mouth,  with  a  smile  of  forced  amiability  in 
the  corners.  He  was  amiable,  perfectly  amiable  and 
innocuous  —  but  that  smile  sometimes  made  people  with 
a  strong  sense  of  humor  want  to  kill  him.  The  smile 
lingered  even  while  he  sighed. 

Mr.  Pursly's  house  was  set  upon  a  hill,  although 
it  was  a  modest  abode.  From  his  window  he  looked 
down  one  of  those  splendid  streets  that  are  the  pride 
and  glory  of  old  towns  in  New  England  —  a  street  fifty 


5b  "SHORT    SIXES." 

yards  wide,  arched  with  grand  Gothic  elms,  bordered 
with  houses  of  pale  yellow  and  white,  some  in  the  home- 
like, simple  yet  dignified  colonial  style,  some  with  great 
Doric  porticos  at  the  street  end.  And  above  the  billowy 
green  of  the  tree-tops  rose  two  shapely  spires,  one  to 
the  right,  of  granite,  one  to  the  left,  of  sand-stone.  It 
was  the  sight  of  these  two  spires  that  made  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Pursly  sigh. 

With  a  population  of  four  thousand  five  hundred, 
'Quawket  had  an  Episcopal  Church,  a  Roman  Catholic 
Church,  a  Presbyterian  Church,  a  Methodist  Church,  a 
Universalist  Church,  (very  small,)  a  Baptist  Church,  a 
Hall  for  the  "  Seventh-Day  Baptists,"  (used  for  secular 
purposes  every  day  but  Saturday,)  a  Bethel,  and  — 
"The  Two  Churches"  —  as  every  one  called  the  First 
and  Second  Congregational  Churches.  Fifteen  years 
before,  there  had  been  but  one  Congregational  Church, 
where  a  prosperous  and  contented  congregation  wor- 
shiped in  a  plain  little  old-fashioned  red  brick  church 
on  a  side-street.  Then,  out  of  this  very  prosperity,  came 
the  idea  of  building  a  fine  new  free-stone  church  on 
Main  Street.  And,  when  the  new  church  was  half-built, 
the  congregation  split  on  the  question  of  putting  a 
"rain-box"  in  the  new  organ.  It  is  quite  unnecessary  to 
detail  how  this  quarrel  over  a  handful  of  peas  grew  into 
a  church  war,  with  ramifications  and  interlacements  and 
entanglements  and  side-issues  and  under-currents  and 
embroilments  of  all  sorts  and  conditions.  In  three  years 
there  was  a  First  Congregational  Church,  in  free-stone, 
solid,    substantial,   plain,   and  a  Second   Congregational 


THE  TWO  CHURCHES  OF   QUAWKET.  57 

Church  in  granite,  something  gingerbready,  but  showy 
and  modish  —  for  there  are  fashions  in  architecture  as 
there  are  in  millinery,  and  we  cut  our  houses  this  way 
this  year  and  that  way  the  next.  And  these  two  churches 
had  half  a  congregation  apiece,  and  a  full-sized  debt, 
and  they  lived  together  in  a  spirit  of  Christian  unity,  on 
Capulet  and  Montague  terms.  The  people  of  the  First 
Church  called  the  people  of  the  Second  Church  the 
"  Sadduceeceders,"  because  there  was  no  future  for  them, 
and  the  people  of  the  Second  Church  called  the  people 
of  the  First  Church  the  "  Pharisee-me"s.  And  this 
went  on  year  after  year,  through  the  Winters  when  the 
foxes  hugged  their  holes  in  the  ground  within  the  woods 
about  'Quawket,  through  the  Summers  when  the  birds 
of  the  air  twittered  in  their  nests  in  the  great  elms  of 
Main  Street. 

If  the  First  Church  had  a  revival,  the  Second 
Church  had  a  fair.  If  the  pastor  of  the  First  Church 
exchanged  with  a  distinguished  preacher  from  Philadel- 
phia, the  organist  of  the  Second  Church  got  a  celebrated 
tenor  from  Boston  and  had  a  service  of  song.  This 
system  after  a  time  created  a  class  in  both  churches 
known  as  "the  floats,"  in  contradistinction  to  the 
"  pillars."  The  floats  went  from  one  church  to  the 
other  according  to  the  attractions  offered.  There  were, 
in  the  end,  more  floats  than  pillars. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Pursly  inherited  this  contest  from 
his  predecessor.  He  had  carried  it  on  for  three  years. 
Finally,  being  a  man  of  logical  and  precise  mental 
processes,   he  called   the  head   men   of  his  congregation 


58  "SHORT   SIXES." 

together,  and  told  them  what  in  worldly  language  might 
be  set  down  thus : 

There  was  room  for  one  Congregational  Church  in 
'Quawket,  and  for  one  only.  The  flock  must  be  re- 
united in  the  parent  fold.  To  do  this  a  master  stroke 
was  necessary.  They  must  build  a  Parish  House.  All 
of  which  was  true  beyond  question  —  and  yet  —  the 
church  had  a  debt  of  $20,000  and  a  Parish  House 
would  cost  $15,000. 

And  now  the  Reverend  Mr.  Pursly  was  sitting  at 
his  study  window,  wondering  why  all  the  rich  men  would 
join  the  Episcopal  Church.  He  cast  down  his  eyes,  and 
saw  a  rich  man  coming  up  his  path  who  could  readily 
have  given  $15,000  for  a  Parish  House,  and  who  might 
safely  be  expected  to  give  $1.50,  if  he  were  rightly 
approached.  A  shade  of  bitterness  crept  over  Mr. 
Pursly's  professional  smile.  Then  a  look  of  puzzled 
wonder  took  possession  of  his  face.  Brother  Joash  Hitt 
was  regular  in  his  attendance  at  church  and  at  prayer- 
meeting;  but  he  kept  office-hours  in  his  religion,  as  in 
everything  else,  and  never  before  had  he  called  upon 
his  pastor. 

Two  minutes  later,  the  minister  was  nervously  shak- 
ing hands  with  Brother  Joash  Hitt. 

"  I  'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Hitt,"  he  stam- 
mered, "very   glad  —  I'm  —  I'm  —  " 

"S'prised?"  suggested  Mr.  Hitt,  grimly. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Pursly. 

Mr.  Hitt  sat  down  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the 
room,  and  glared  at  his  embarrassed  host.      He  was  a 


THE  TWO  CHURCHES  OE  'QUAWKET.  jg 

huge  old  man,  bent,  heavily-built,  with  grizzled  dark 
hair,  black  eyes,  skin  tanned  to  a  mahogany  brown, 
a  heavy  square  under-jaw,  and  big  leathery  dew-laps  on 
each  side  of  it  that  looked  as  hard  as  the  jaw  itself. 
Brother  Joash  had  been  all  things  in  his  long  life  —  sea- 
captain,  commission  merchant,  speculator,  slave-dealer 
even,  people  said — and  all  things  to  his  profit.  Of  late 
years  he  had  turned  over  his  capital  in  money-lending, 
and  people  said  that  his  great  claw-like  fingers  had 
grown  crooked  with  holding  the  tails  of  his  mortgages. 

A  silence  ensued.  The  pastor  looked  up  and  saw 
that  Brother  Joash  had  no  intention  of  breaking  it. 

"  Can  I  do  any  thing  for  you,  Mr.  Hitt?"  inquired 
Mr.  Pursly. 

"Ya-as,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Ye  kin.  I  b'leeve 
you  gin'lly  git  sump'n'  over  'n'  above  your  sellery  when 
you  preach  a  fun'l  sermon?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Hitt,  it  —  yes  —  it  is  customary." 

"  How  much  ?" 

"The  usual  honorarium  is  —  h'm  —  ten  dollars." 

"The  —  whut?  " 

'•  The  —  the  fee." 

'■  Will  you  write  me  one  for  ten  dollars  ? " 

"Why  —  why  —  "  said  the  minister,  nervously; 
"  I  did  n't  know  that  any  one  had  —  had  died — " 

"  There  hain't  no  one  died,  ez  I  know.  It  's  ?ny 
fun'l  sermon  I  want." 

"But,  my  dear  Mr.  Hitt,  I  trust  you  are  not  — 
that  you  won't  —  that  — " 

<<  Life's  a  rope  of  sand,  parson  —  you'd  ought  to 


6o  "SHORT   SIXES." 

know  that  —  nor  we  don't  none  of  us  know  when  it 's 
goin'  to  fetch  loost.  I  'm  most  ninety  now,  'n'  I  don't 
cal'late  to  git  no  younger." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Pursly,  faintly  smiling;  "when 
the  time  does  come  — " 

"No,  sir.'"  interrupted  Mr.  Hitt,  with  emphasis; 
"when  the  time  doos  come,  I  won't  have  no  use  for  it. 
Th'  ain't  no  sense  in  the  way  most  folks  is  berrid. 
Whut  's  th'  use  of  puttin'  a  man  into  a  mahog'ny  coffin, 
with  a  silver  plate  big  's  a  dishpan,  an'  preachin'  a  fun'l 
sermon  over  him,  an'  costin'  his  estate  good  money, 
when  he  's  only  a  poor  deef,  dumb,  blind  fool  corpse, 
an'  don't  get  no  good  of  it  ?  Naow,  I  've  be'n  to  the 
undertaker's,  an'  hed  my  coffin  made  under  my  own 
sooperveesion  —  good  wood,  straight  grain,  no  knots  — 
nuthin'  fancy,  but  doorable.  I  've  hed  my  tombstun 
cut,  an'  chose  my  text  to  put  onto  it  —  'we  brung 
nuthin'  into  the  world,  an'  it  is  certain  we  can  take 
nuthin'  out'  —  an'  now  I  want  my  fun'l  sermon,  jes'  as 
the  other  folks  is  goin'  to  hear  it  who  don't  pay  nuthin' 
for  it.      Kin  you  hev  it  ready  for  me  this  day  week?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mr.  Pursly,  weakly. 

"  I  '11  call  fer  it,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Heern  some 
talk  about  a  Perrish  House,  did  n't  I  ?" 

"Yes,"  began  Mr.  Pursly,  his  face  lighting  up. 

"  'T  ain't  no  sech  a  bad  /dee,"  remarked  Brother 
Joash.  "Wal,  good  day."  And  he  walked  off  before  the 
minister  could  say  any  thing  more. 


THE  TWO  CHURCHES  OF  'QUAWKET.  61 

One  week  later,  Mr.  Pursly  again  sat  in  his  study, 
looking  at  Brother  Joash,  who  had  a  second  time  settled 
himself  in  the  dark  corner. 

It  had  been  a  terrible  week  for  Mr.  Pursly.  He  and 
his  conscience,  and  his  dream  of  the  Parish  House,  had 
been  shut  up  together  working  over  that  sermon,  and 
waging  a  war  of  compromises.  The  casualties  in  this 
war  were  all  on  the  side  of  the  conscience. 

"  Read  it !  "  commanded  Brother  Joash.  The  min- 
ister grew  pale.  This  was  more  than  he  had  expected. 
He  grew  pale  and  then  red  and  then  pale  again. 

"  Go  ahead !  "  said  Brother  Joash. 

"  Brethren,"  began  Mr.  Pursly,  and  then  he  stopped 
short.    His  pulpit  voice  sounded  strange  in  his  little  study. 

"  Go  ahead  !  "  said  Brother  Joash. 

"We  are  gathered  together  here  to-day  to  pay  a 
last  tribute  of  respect  and  affection  —  " 

"Ok!"  There  was  a  sound  like  the  report  of  a 
small  pistol.  Mr.  Pursly  looked  up.  Brother  Joash 
regarded  him  with  stern  intentness. 

"  —  to  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  prominent 
citizens  of  our  town,  a  pillar  of  our  church,  and  a 
monument  of  the  civic  virtues  of  probity,  industry  and 
wisdom,  a  man  in  whom  we  all  took  pride,  and  —  " 

"Ok!"  Mr.  Pursly  looked  up  more  quickly  this 
time,  and  a  faint  suggestion  of  an  expression  just  vanish- 
ing from  Mr.  Hitt's  lips  awakened  in  his  unsuspicious 
breast  a  horrible  suspicion  that  Brother  Joash  had 
chuckled. 

"  —  whose  like  we  shall  not  soon  again  see  in  our 


6s  •'SHORT   SIXES." 

midst.  The  children  on  the  streets  will  miss  his  familiar 
face  —  " 

"  Say  !  "  broke  in  Brother  Joash,  "  how  'd  it  be  for 
a  delegation  of  child'n  to  foller  the  remains,  with  flowers 
or  sump'n'  ?  They  'd  volunteer  if  you  give  'em  the  hint, 
would  n't  they?  " 

"It  would  be  —  unusual,"  said  the  minister. 

"  All  right,"  assented  Mr.  Hitt,  "only  an  z'dee  of 
mine.     Thought  they  might  like  it.     Go  ahead  !" 

Mr.  Pursly  went  ahead,  haunted  by  an  agonizing 
fear  of  that  awful  chuckle,  if  chuckle  it  was.  But  he  got 
along  without  interruption  until  he  reached  a  casual  and 
guarded  allusion  to  the  widows  and  orphans  without 
whom  no  funeral  oration  is  complete.  Here  the  metallic 
voice  of  Brother  Joash  rang  out  again. 

"  Say  !  Ef  the  widders  and  orphans  send  a  wreath 
—  or  a  Gates- Ajar  —  ef  they  do,  mind  ye  !  —  you  '11  hev 
it  put  a-top  of  the  coffin,  where  folks  '11  see  it,  wun't  ye?" 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Pursly,  hastily; 
"  his  charities  were  unostentatious,  as  was  the  whole 
tenor  of  his  life.  In  these  days  of  spendthrift  extrava- 
gance, our  young  men  may  well  —  " 

"  Say  !  "  Brother  Joash  broke  in  once  more.  "  Ef 
any  one  wuz  to  git  up  right  there,  an'  say  that  I  wuz  the 
derndest  meanest,  miserly,  penurious,  parsimonious  old 
hunks  in  'Quawket,  you  would  n't  let  him  talk  like  that, 
would  ye? " 

"  Unquestionably  not,  Mr.  Hitt !  "  said  the  minister, 
in  horror. 

"  Thought  not.      On'y  thet  's  whut  I  heern  one  o' 


THE  TWO  CHURCHES  OF  'QUAWKET.  bj 

your  deacons  say  about  me  the  other  day.  Did  n't  know 
I  heern  him,  but  I  did.  I  thought  you  would  n't  allow 
no  such  talk  as  that.    Go  ahead  ! " 

"I  must  ask  you,  Mr.  Hitt,"  Mr.  Pursly  said,  per- 
spiring at  every  pore,  "  to  refrain  from  interruptions  — 
or  I  —  I  really  —  can  not  continue." 

"All  right,"  returned  Mr.  Hitt,  with  perfect  calm- 
ness.    "Continner." 

Mr.  Pursly  continued  to  the  bitter  end,  with  no 
further  interruption  that  called  for  remonstrance.  There 
were  soft  inarticulate  sounds  that  seemed  to  him  to  come 
from  Brother  Joash's  dark  corner.  But  it  might  have 
been  the  birds  in  the  Ampelopsis  Veitchii  that  covered 
the  house. 

Brother  Joash  expressed  no  opinion,  good  or  ill,  of 
the  address.  He  paid  his  ten  dollars,  in  one-dollar  bills, 
and  took  his  receipt.  But  as  the  anxious  minister  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  door,  he  turned  suddenly  and  said: 

"  You  was  talkin'  'bout  a  Perrish  House?" 

"Yes  —  " 

"  Kin  ye  keep  a  secret?" 

"I  hope  so  —  yes,  certainly,  Mr.  Hitt." 

"  The'  '11  be  one." 


"  I  feel,"  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Pursly  to  his  wife, 
"  as  if  I  had  carried  every  stone  of  that  Parish  House 
on  my  shoulders  and  put  it  in  its  place.  Can  you  make 
me  a  cup  of  tea,  my  dear? " 


6/ 


SHORT  SIXES. 


The  Summer  days  had  begun  to  grow  chill,  and  tht 
great  elms  of  'Quawket  were  flecked  with  patches  and 
spots  of  yellow,   when,   early  one  morning,  the  meagre 
little  charity-boy  whose  duty 
it    was    to   black  Mr.    Hitt's 
boots  every  day  —  it  was  a 
luxury  he  allowed  himself  in 
his   old    age  —  rushed,    pale 
and  frightened,  into  a  neigh- 
boring  grocery,    and   cried: 
"Mist'  Hitt  's  dead!" 
"Guess    not,"     said    the 
grocer,  doubtfully.  "Brother 
Hitt  's    gut    th'    Old    Nick's 
agency  for  'Quawket,  'n'  I  ain't 
heerd  th't  he  's  been  discharged 
for  inattention  to  dooty." 
"  He  's  layin'  there  smilin',"  said  the  boy. 
"  Smilin'?"  repeated  the  grocer.    "  Guess  I'd  better 
go  'n'  see." 

In  very  truth,  Brother  Joash  lay  there  in  his  bed, 
dead  and  cold,  with  a  smile  on  his  hard  old  lips,  the  first 
he  had  ever  worn.  And  a  most  sardonic  and  discom- 
forting smile  it  was. 


The  Reverend  Mr.  Pursly  read  Mr.  Hitt's  funeral 
address  for  the  second  time,  in  the  First  Congregational 
Church  of  'Quawket.      Every  seat  was  filled;   every  ear 


THE   TWO  CHURCHES  OF  QUAWKET.  6j 

was  attentive.  He  stood  on  the  platform,  and  below 
him,  supported  on  decorously  covered  trestles,  stood  the 
coffin  that  enclosed  all  that  was  mortal  of  Brother  Joash 
Hitt.  Mr.  Pursly  read  with  his  face  immovably  set  on 
the  line  of  the  clock  in  the  middle  of  the  choir-gallery 
railing.  He  did  not  dare  to  look  down  at  the  sardonic 
smile  in  the  coffin  below  him;  he  did  not  dare  to  let  his 
eye  wander  to  the  dark  left-hand  corner  of  the  church, 
remembering  the  dark  left-hand  corner  of  his  own  study. 
And  as  he  repeated  each  complimentary,  obsequious, 
flattering  platitude,  a  hideous,  hysterical  fear  grew 
stronger  and  stronger  within  him  that  suddenly  he  would 
be  struck  dumb  by  the  "elk!"  of  that  mirthless  chuckle 
that  had  sounded  so  much  like  a  pistol-shot.  His  voice 
was  hardly  audible  in  the  benediction. 


The  streets  of  'Ouawket  were  at  their  gayest  and 
brightest  when  the  mourners  drove  home  from  the  ceme- 
tery at  the  close  of  the  noontide  hour.  The  mourners 
were  principally  the  deacons  and  elders  of  the  First 
Church.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Pursly  lay  back  in  his  seat 
with  a  pleasing  yet  fatigued  consciousness  of  duty  per- 
formed and  martyrdom  achieved.  He  was  exhausted, 
but  humbly  happy.  As  they  drove  along,  he  looked  with 
a  speculative  eye  on  one  or  two  eligible  sites  for  the 
Parish  House.  His  companion  in  the  carriage  was  Mr. 
Uriel  Hankinson,  Brother  Joash's  lawyer,  whose  entire 
character    had    been    aptly   summed   up  by  one  of  his 


66 


SHORT  sixes: 


fellow-citizens  in  conferring  on  him  the  designation  of 
"a  little  Joash  for  one  cent." 

"Parson,"   said  Mr.    Hankinson,   breaking  a  long 
silence,   "that  was  a  fust-rate 
oration  you  made." 


"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  you 
say    so,"   replied    Mr. 
Pursly,      his      chronic 
smile  broadening. 
"You    treated    the- de- 
ceased right  handsome, 
considerin',"  went  on  the 
lawyer  Hankinson. 

"  Considering  what  ?  " 
inquired  Mr.  Pursly,  in 
surprise. 

"  Considerin'  —  well,  con- 
siderin'— "  replied  Mr.  Hank- 
inson, with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 
"You  must  feel  to  be  reel  disap- 
p'inted  'bout  the  Parish  House, 
I  sh'd  s'pose. " 
"The  Parish  House?"  repeated  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Pursly,  with  a  cold  chill  at  his  heart,  but  with  dignity  in 
his  voice.  "You  may  not  be  aware,  Mr.  Hankinson, 
that  I  have  Mr.  Hitt's  promise  that  we  should  have  a 
Parish  House.  And  Mr.  Hitt  was  —  was  —  a  man  of  his 
word."  This  conclusion  sounded  to  his  own  ears  a  trifle 
lame  and  impotent. 

"  Guess  you  had  his  promise  that  there  should  be 


The  two  churches  of  'quAWkeT. 


6? 


a  Parish  House,"  corrected  the  lawyer,  with  a  chuckle 
that  might  have  been  a  faint  echo  of  Brother  Joash's. 

"Well?" 

"Well  —  the  Second  Church  gits  it.  I  draw'd  his 
will.  Good  day,  parson,  I  '11  'light  here.  Air  's  kind  o' 
cold,  ain't  it  ?" 


THE   LOVE-LETTERS 
OF  SMITH. 


"  A  peculiar  gritting  noise  made  her  look  down." 


THE     LOVE-LETTERS     OF    SMITH. 

Y\  Then  the  little  seamstress  had  climbed  to  her 
™  "  room  in  the  story  over  the  top  story  of  the  great 
brick  tenement  house  in  which  she  lived,  she  was  quite 
tired  out.  If  you  do  not  understand  what  a  story  over  a 
top  story  is,  you  must  remember  that  there  are  no 
limits  to  human  greed,  and  hardly  any  to  the  height  of 
tenement  houses.  When  the  man  who  owned  that  seven- 
story  tenement  found  that  he  could  rent  another  floor, 
he  found  no  difficulty  in  persuading  the  guardians  of 
our  building  laws  to  let  him  clap  another  story  on  the 
roof,  like  a  cabin  on  the  deck  of  a  ship ;  and  in  the 
southeasterly  of  the  four  apartments  on  this  floor  the 
little  seamstress  lived.  You  could  just  see  the  top  of  her 
window  from  the  street  —  the  huge  cornice  that  had 
capped  the  original  front,  and  that  served  as  her  window- 
sill  now,  quite  hid  all  the  lower  part  of  the  story  on  top 
of  the  top-story. 

The  little  seamstress  was  scarcely  thirty  years  old, 
but  she  was  such  an  old-fashioned  little  body  in  so  many 
of  her  looks  and  ways  that  I  had  almost  spelled  her 
sempstress,  after  the  fashion  of  our  grandmothers.      She 


J  2  "  SHORT  SIXES." 

had  been  a  comely  body,  too ;  and  would  have  been  still, 
if  she  had  not  been  thin  and  pale  and  anxious-eyed. 

She  was  tired  out  to-night  because  she  had  been 
working  hard  all  day  for  a  lady  who  lived  far  up  in  the 
"  New  Wards"  beyond  Harlem  River,  and  after  the  long 
journey  home,  she  had  to  climb  seven  flights  of  tene- 
ment-house stairs.  She  was  too  tired,  both  in  body  and 
in  mind,  to  cook  the  two  little  chops  she  had  brought 
home.  She  would  save  them  for  breakfast,  she  thought. 
So  she  made  herself  a  cup  of  tea  on  the  miniature  stove, 
and  ate  a  slice  of  dry  bread  with  it.  It  was  too  much 
trouble  to  make  toast. 

But  after  dinner  she  watered  her  flowers.  She  was 
never  too  tired  for  that:  and  the  six  pots  of  geraniums 
that  caught  the  south  sun  on  the  top  of  the  cornice  did 
their  best  to  repay  her.  Then  she  sat  down  in  her  rock- 
ing chair  by  the  window  and  looked  out.  Her  eyry  was 
high  above  all  the  other  buildings,  and  she  could  look 
across  some  low  roofs  opposite,  and  see  the  further  end 
of  Tompkins  Square,  with  its  sparse  Spring  green  show- 
ing faintly  through  the  dusk.  The  eternal  roar  of  the 
city  floated  up  to  her  and  vaguely  troubled  her.  She 
was  a  country  girl,  and  although  she  had  lived  for  ten 
years  in  New  York,  she  had  never  grown  used  to  that 
ceaseless  murmur.  To-night  she  felt  the  languor  of 
the  new  season  as  well  as  the  heaviness  of  physical 
exhaustion.      She  was  almost  too  tired  to  go  to  bed. 

She  thought  of  the  hard  day  done  and  the  hard  day 
to  be  begun  after  the  night  spent  on  the  hard  little  bed. 
She  thought  of  the  peaceful  days  in  the  country,  when 


THE  LOVE-LETTERS  OF  SMITH.  73 

she  taught  school  in  the  Massachusetts  village  where  she 
was  born.  She  thought  of  a  hundred  small  slights  that 
she  had  to  bear  from  people  better  fed  than  bred.  She 
thought  of  the  sweet  green  fields  that  she  rarely  saw 
nowadays.  She  thought  of  the  long  journey  forth  and 
back  that  must  begin  and  end  her  morrow's  work,  and 
she  wondered  if  her  employer  would  think  to  offer  to  pay 
her  fare.  Then  she  pulled  herself  together.  She  must 
think  of  more  agreeable  things,  or  she  could  not  sleep. 
And  as  the  only  agreeable  things  she  had  to  think  about 
were  her  flowers,  she  looked  at  the  garden  on  top  of 
the  cornice. 

A  peculiar  gritting  noise  made  her  look  down,  and 
she  saw  a  cylindrical  object  that  glittered  in  the  twilight, 
advancing  in  an  irregular  and  uncertain  manner  toward 
her  flower-pots.  Looking  closer,  she  saw  that  it  was  a 
pewter  beer-mug,  which  somebody  in  the  next  apartment 
was  pushing  with  a  two-foot  rule.  On  top  of  the  beer- 
mug  was  a  piece  of  paper,  and  on  this  paper  was  written, 
in  a  sprawling,  half-formed  hand : 

porter 

pleas  excuse  the  libberty  And 

drink  it 

The  seamstress  started  up  in  terror,  and  shut  the 
window.  She  remembered  that  there  was  a  man  in  the 
next  apartment.  She  had  seen  him  on  the  stairs,  on 
Sundays.  He  seemed  a  grave,  decent  person  ;  but  —  he 
must  be  drunk.  She  sat  down  on  her  bed,  all  a-tremble. 
Then  she  reasoned  with  herself.      The  man  was  drunk, 


74  "SHORT    SIXES." 

that  was  all.  He  probably  would  not  annoy  her  further. 
And  if  he  did,  she  had  only  to  retreat  to  Mrs.  Mulvaney's 
apartment  in  the  rear,  and  Mr.  Mulvaney,  who  was  a 
highly  respectable  man  and  worked  in  a  boiler-shop, 
would  protect  her.  So,  being  a  poor  woman  who  had 
already  had  occasion  to  excuse  —  and  refuse  —  two  or 
three  "  libberties  "  of  like  sort,  she  made  up  her  mind  to 
go  to  bed  like  a  reasonable  seamstress,  and  she  did.  She 
was  rewarded,  for  when  her  light  was  out,  she  could  see 
in  the  moonlight  that  the  two-foot  rule  appeared  again, 
with  one  joint  bent  back,  hitched  itself  into  the  mug- 
handle,  and  withdrew  the  mug. 

The  next  day  was  a  hard  one  for  the  little  seam- 
stress, and  she  hardly  thought  of  the  affair  of  the 
night  before  until  the  same  hour  had  come  around  again, 
and  she  sat  once  more  by  her  window.  Then  she  smiled 
at  the  remembrance.  "Poor  fellow,"  she  said  in  her 
charitable  heart,  "I  've  no  doubt  he  's  awfully  ashamed 
of  it  now.  Perhaps  he  was  never  tipsy  before.  Perhaps 
he  did  n't  know  there  was  a  lone  woman  in  here  to  be 
frightened." 

Just  then  she  heard  a  gritting  sound.  She  looked 
down.  The  pewter  pot  was  in  front  of  her,  and  the 
two-foot  rule  was  slowly  retiring.  On  the  pot  was  a 
piece  of  paper,  and  on  the  paper  was : 

porter- 
good  for  the  helth 
it  makes  meet 

This   time   the   little   seamstress  shut    her  window 


THE  LOVE-LETTERS  OF  SMITH.  75 

with  a  bang  of  indignation.  The  color  rose  to  her  pale 
cheeks.  She  thought  that  she  would  go  down  to  see  the 
janitor  at  once.  Then  she  remembered  the  seven  nights 
of  stairs ;  and  she  resolved  to  see  the  janitor  in  the 
morning.  Then  she  went  to  bed  and  saw  the  mug 
drawn  back  just  as  it  had  been  drawn  back  the  night 
before. 

The  morning  came,  but,  somehow,  the  seamstress 
did  not  care  to  complain  to  the  janitor.  She  hated  to 
make  trouble  —  and  the  janitor  might  think  —  and  — 
and  —  well,  if  the  wretch  did  it  again  she  would  speak 
to  him  herself,  and  that  would  settle  it. 

And  so,  on  the  next  night,  which  was  a  Thursday, 
the  little  seamstress  sat  down  by  her  window,  resolved 
to  settle  the  matter.  And  she  had  not  sat  there  long, 
rocking  in  the  creaking  little  rocking-chair  which  she 
had  brought  with  her  from  her  old  home,  when  the 
pewter  pot  hove  in  sight,  with  a  piece  of  paper  on 
the  top. 

This  time  the  legend  read : 

Perhaps  you  are  afrade  i  will 

adress  you 

i  am  not  that  kind 

The  seamstress  did  not  quite  know  whether  to 
laugh  or  to  cry.  But  she  felt  that  the  time  had  come 
for  speech.  She  leaned  out  of  her  window  and  addressed 
the  twilight  heaven. 

"Mr.  —  Mr. — sir  —  I  —  will  you  please  put  your 
head  out  of  the  window  so  that  I  can  speak  to  you  ?  " 


76  "SHORT   SIXES." 

The  silence  of  the  other  room  was  undisturbed. 
The  seamstress  drew  back,  blushing.  But  before  she 
could  nerve  herself  for  another  attack,  a  piece  of  paper 
appeared  on  the  end  of  the  two-foot  rule. 

■when  i  Say  a  thing  i 
mene  it 

i  have  Sed  i  would  not 
A  dress  you  and  i 
Will  not 

What  was  the  little  seamstress  to  do?  She  stood  by 
the  window  and  thought  hard  about  it.  Should  she 
complain  to  the  janitor?  But  the  creature  was  perfectly 
respectful.  No  doubt  he  meant  to  be  kind.  He  cer- 
tainly was  kind,  to  waste  these  pots  of  porter  on  her. 
She  remembered  the  last  time  —  and  the  first  —  that  she 
had  drunk  porter.  It  was  at  home,  when  she  was  a 
young  girl,  after  she  had  had  the  diphtheria.  She 
remembered  how  good  it  was,  and  how  it  had  given  her 
back  her  strength.  And  without  one  thought  of  what 
she  was  doing,  she  lifted  the  pot  of  porter  and  took  one 
little  reminiscent  sip  —  two  little  reminiscent  sips  —  and 
became  aware  of  her  utter  fall  and  defeat.  She  blushed 
now  as  she  had  never  blushed  before,  put  the  pot  down, 
closed  the  window,  and  fled  to  her  bed  like  a  deer  to 
the  woods. 

And  when  the  porter  arrived  the  next  night,  bear- 
ing the  simple  appeal : 

Dont  be  afrade  of  it 
drink  it  all 


THE  LOVE-LETTERS  OF  SMITH. 


77 


the  little  seamstress  arose  and  grasped 
the    pot    firmly   by    the    handle,    and 
poured    its    contents    over    the    earth 
around  her  largest  geranium.    She 
poured  the  contents  out  to  the  last  s 

drop,  and   then   she   dropped   the 
pot,  and  ran  back  and  sat  on  her 
bed  and  cried,  with  her  face  hid  in 
her  hands. 

"Now,"    she    said    to    herself, 
"  you  Ve  done  it !     And  you  're  just  as 
nasty  and  hard-hearted  and  suspicious  and  mean  as  — 
as  pusley  !  " 

And  she  wept  to  think  of  her  hardness  of  heart. 
"  He  will  never  give  me  a  chance  to  say  I  am  sorry,"  she 
thought.  And,  really,  she  might  have  spoken  kindly  to 
the  poor  man,  and  told  him  that  she  was  much  obliged 
to  him,  but  that  he  really  must  n't  ask  her  to  drink  porter 
with  him. 

"  But  it 's  all  over  and  done  now,"  she  said  to  her- 
self as  she  sat  at  her  window  on  Saturday  night.  And 
then  she  looked  at  the  cornice,  and  saw  the  faithful  little 
pewter  pot  traveling  slowly  toward  her. 

She  was  conquered.  This  act  of  Christian  forbear- 
ance was  too  much  for  her  kindly  spirit.  She  read  the 
inscription  on  the  paper: 

porter  is  good  for  Flours 
but  better  for  Fokes 


and  she  lifted  the  pot  to  her  lips,  which  were  not  half 


7* 


SHORT   SIXES." 


so  red  as  her  cheeks,  and  took  a  good,  hearty,  grateful 
draught. 

She    sipped    in    thoughtful    silence    after    this    first 
plunge,  and  presently  she  was  surprised  to  find  the  bot- 
tom of  the  pot  in  full  view. 

On  the  table  at  her  side  a  few 
pearl  buttons  were  screwed  up 
in  a  bit  of  white  paper.  She  un- 
twisted the  paper  and  smoothed 
it  out,  and  wrote  in  a  tremulous 
hand  —  she  could  write  a  very 
neat  hand  — 

Thanks. 

This  she  laid  on  the  top  of 
the  pot,  and  in  a  moment  the 
bent  two-foot-rule  appeared  and 
drew  the  mail  -  carriage  home. 
Then  she  sat  still,  enjoying  the  warm 
glow  of  the  porter,  which  seemed  to  have  permeated 
her  entire  being  with  a  heat  that  was  not  at  all  like  the 
unpleasant  and  oppressive  heat  of  the  atmosphere,  an 
atmosphere  heavy  with  the  Spring  damp.  A  gritting  on 
the  tin  aroused  her.    A  piece  of  paper  lay  under  her  eyes. 


fine  groing  weather 

.,  Smith 

it  said. 

Now  it  is  unlikely  that  in  the  whole  round  and  range 

of  conversational    commonplaces   there   was    one    other 

greeting    that    could    have    induced    the    seamstress    to 


THE  LOVE-LETTERS  OF  SMITH. 


79 


continue  the  exchange  of  communications.  But  this  sim- 
ple and  homely  phrase  touched  her  country  heart.  What 
did  "groing  weather"  matter  to  the  toilers  in  this 
waste  of  brick  and  mortar?  This  stranger  must  be, 
like  herself,  a  country-bred  soul,  longing  for  the  new 
green  and  the  upturned  brown  mould  of  the  country 
fields.  She  took  up  the  paper,  and  wrote  under  the 
first  message : 

Fine 

But  that  seemed  curt;  for  she  added:  "for" 
what?  She  did  not  know.  At  last  in  desperation  she 
put  down  potatos.  The  piece  of  paper  was  withdrawn 
and  came  back  with  an  addition : 

Too  mist  for  potatos. 

And  when  the  little  seamstress  had  read  this,  and 
grasped  the  fact  that  m-i-s-t  represented  the  writer's 
pronunciation  of  "moist,"  she  laughed  softly  to  herself. 
A  man  whose  mind,  at  such  a  time,  was  seriously  bent 
upon  potatos,  was  not  a  man  to  be  feared.  She  found  a 
half-sheet  of  note-paper,  and  wrote: 

/  lived  in  a  small  village  before  I  came  to  New 
York,  but  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  know  much  about 
farming.      Are  you  a  farmer? 

The  answer  came : 

have  ben  most  Every  thing 
farmed  a  Spel  in  Maine 

Smith 


So  ''SHORT  SIXES." 

As  she  read  this,  the  seamstress  heard  a  church 
clock  strike  nine. 

"Bless  me,  is  it  so  late?"  she  cried,  and  she  hur- 
riedly penciled  Good  Night,  thrust  the  paper  out,  and 
closed  the  window.  But  a  few  minutes  later,  passing  by, 
she  saw  yet  another  bit  of  paper  on  the  cornice,  flutter- 
ing in  the  evening  breeze.  It  said  only  good  nite,  and 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  the  little  seamstress  took  it 
in  and  gave  it  shelter. 


After  this,    they  were  the  best  of  friends.      Every 
evening   the    pot    appeared,    and   while    the    seamstress 
drank  from   it  at  her  window,  Mr.  Smith   drank 
from  its  twin  at  his ;  and  notes  were 
exchanged  as  rapidly  as  Mr.  Smith's 
early  education  permitted.      They 
told  each  other  their  his- 
tories,   and     Mr.     Smith's 
was     one     of     travel     and 
variety,    which   he  seemed 
to  consider  quite  a  mat- 
ter of  course.      He  had 
followed  the  sea,  he  had 
farmed,  he  had  been  a 
logger   and    a    hunter    in 
the    Maine    woods.       Now 
he  was  foreman  of  an  East 
River  lumber  yard,  and  he 


THE  LOVE-LETTERS  OF  SMITH. 


Si 


was  prospering.     In  a  year  or  two  he  would  have  enough 

laid  by  to  go  home  to  Bucksport  and  buy  a  share   in  a 

ship-building   business.       All    this    dribbled   out    in    the 

course    of   a   jerky   but    variegated    correspondence,    in 

which  autobiographic  details  were  mixed  with  reflections, 

moral  and  philosophical. 

A   few  samples  will   give   an   idea   of  Mr.    Smith's 

style : 

i  was  one  trip  to  van  demens 

land 
To  which  the  seamstress  replied : 

It  must  have  been  very  interesting. 
But  Mr.  Smith  disposed  of  this  subject  very  briefly: 

it  wornt 
Further  he  vouchsafed: 

i  seen  a  Chinese  cook  in 

hong  kong  could  cook  flapjacks 

like  your  Mother 

a  mishnery  that  sells  Rum 
is  the  menest  of  Gods  crechers 

a  bulfite  is  not  what  it  is 
cract  up  to  Be 

the  dagos  are  wussen  the 
brutes 

i  am  6  I  }£ 

but  my  Father  was  6  foot  4 

The  seamstress  had  taught  school  one  Winter,  and 


Ss  ''SHOUT  SIXES." 

she  could  not  refrain  from  making  an  attempt  to  reform 
Mr.  Smith's  orthography.  One  evening,  in  answer  to 
this  communication : 

i  killd  a  Bare  in  Maine  600 
lbs  ivaight 
she  wrote : 

Is  n't  it  generally  spelled  Bear? 

but  she  gave  up  the  attempt  when  he  responded: 

a  bare  is  a  mene  animle  any 
way  yon  spel  him 

The  Spring  wore  on,  and  the  Summer  came,  and 
still  the  evening  drink  and  the  evening  correspondence 
brightened  the  close  of  each  day  for  the  little  seamstress. 
And  the  draught  of  porter  put  her  to  sleep  each  night, 
giving  her  a  calmer  rest  than  she  had  ever  known  during 
her  stay  in  the  noisy  city;  and  it  began,  moreover,  to 
make  a  little  "  meet"  for  her.  And  then  the  thought 
that  she  was  going  to  have  an  hour  of  pleasant  com- 
panionship somehow  gave  her  courage  to  cook  and  eat 
her  little  dinner,  however  tired  she  was.  The  seamstress's 
cheeks  began  to  blossom  with  the  June  roses. 

And  all  this  time  Mr.  Smith  kept  his  vow  of  silence 
unbroken,  though  the  seamstress  sometimes  tempted  him 
with  little  ejaculations  and  exclamations  to  which  he 
might  have  responded.  He  was  silent  and  invisible. 
Only  the  smoke  of  his  pipe,  and  the  clink  of  his  mug 
as  he  set  it  down  on  the  cornice,  told  her  that  a  living, 
material  Smith  was  her  correspondent.      They  never  met 


THE  LOVE-LETTERS  OF  SMITH. 


on  the  stairs,  for  their  hours  of  coming  and  going  did  not 
coincide.  Once  or  twice  they  passed  each  other  in  the 
street  —  but  Mr.  Smith  looked  straight  ahead  of  him, 
about  a  foot  over  her  head.  The  little  seamstress  thought 
he  was  a  very  fine-looking  man,  with  his  six  feet  one  and 
three-quarters  and  his  thick  brown  beard.  Most  people 
would  have  called  him  plain. 

Once  she  spoke  to  him.      She  was  coming  home 
one    Summer    evening,    and   a    gang    of   corner- loafers 
stopped  her  and   demanded   money  to  buy  beer,   as  is 
their  custom.      Before   she   had  time   to   be  frightened, 
Mr.    Smith  appeared  —  whence,   she  knew 
not  —  scattered  the  gang  like  chaff, 
and,    collaring    two   of  the   human 
hyenas,  kicked  them,  with  deliber- 
ate,   ponderous,    alternate    kicks 
until  they  writhed  in  ineffable 
agony.      When    he    let    them 
crawl  away,  she  turned  to  him 
and  thanked  him  warmly,  look- 
ing very  pretty  now,  with  the 
color  in  her  cheeks.    But  Mr. 
Smith    answered    no    word. 
He    stared    over    her  head, 
grew  red  in  the  face,  fidgeted 
nervously,  but  held  his  peace 
until  his  eyes  fell  on  a  rotund 
Teuton,  passing  by. 

"Say,  Dutchy  !  "  he  roared. 

The  German  stood  aghast. 

7 


short  sixes: 


"  1  ain't  got  nothing  to  write  with  !  "  thundered  Mr. 
Smith,  looking  him  in  the  eye.  And  then  the  man  of 
his  word  passed  on  his  way. 

And   so   the    Summer  went  on,   and  the   two  cor- 
respondents chatted  silently  from  window  to  window,  hid 
from  sight  of  all  the  world  below  by  the  friendly  cornice. 
And  they  looked  out  over  the  roof, 
and  saw  the  green  of  Tomp- 
kins  Square  grow  darker 
and  dustier  as  the  months 
went  on. 

Mr.  Smith  was  given  to 
Sunday  trips  into  the  sub- 
urbs, and  he  never  came 
back  without  a  bunch  of 
daisies  or  black-eyed  Su- 
sans or,  later,  asters  or 
golden  -  rod  for  the  little 
seamstress.  Sometimes,  with 
a  sagacity  rare  in  his  sex,  he 
brought  her  a  whole  plant,  with 
fresh  loam  for  potting. 
He  gave  her  also  a  reel  in  a  bottle,  which,  he  wrote, 
he  had  "maid"  himself,  and  some  coral,  and  a  dried  fly- 
ing-fish, that  was  somewhat  fearful  to  look  upon,  with  its 
sword-like  fins  and  its  hollow  eyes.  At  first,  she  could 
not  go  to  sleep  with  that  flying-fish  hanging  on  the  wall. 
But  he  surprised  the  little  seamstress  very  much 
one  cool  September  evening,  when  he  shoved  this  letter 
along  the  cornice : 


THE  LOVE-LETTERS  OF  SMITH.  8$ 

f  '\jumjoC    xwuL    sfaowwL  McwLwl  j 

off  /wvu  A^tOmjcmtl^S/yiarir  CiA/tuX- /muAzJft- 
of.M^L  ^AM/i&njL  oft '^^^^^^/^w^^W 
fa ati//U&&n£ /wavt/ti/iXL  j££vc  -/ux^^uvt'^u. 

<^ad(WVl<k  VAvM/tZ^X<rna\^Jkr  CtffiAOwUi- /UovL 
wMs?f^/y^/wUh-  £uZaZ££-  9^Aw6iCo<J^C^  £ 

cficrrwt  syncohu  at  owul  zAu.  ZUM$y  ttfwt  s£wL 
€/^m/voimc  of  dwwLm  /nrfiv  /yutn^Ccc-m  <&£  syuor- 

^AaJma.  owl  mthvU,  scflioAmi'  asnct /tA/Jua4 ^Ju?u&- 


<?rt  "  SHORT   SIXES." 

The  little  seamstress  gazed  at  this  letter  a  long  time. 
Perhaps  she  was  wondering  in  what  Ready  Letter-Writer 
of  the  last  century  Mr.  Smith  had  found 
his  form.  Perhaps  she  was  amazed 
at  the  results  of  his  first  attempt  at 
punctuation.  Perhaps  she  was  think- 
ing of  something  else,  for  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes  and  a  smile  on  her 
small  mouth. 

But  it  must  have  been  a  long 
time,  and  Mr.  Smith  must  have 
grown  nervous,  for  presently  another 
communication  came  along  the  line 
where  the  top  of  the  cornice  was  worn 
smooth.      It  read : 

If  not  understood  will  you 
inary  vie 

The  little  seamstress  seized  a   piece   of  paper  and 
wrote : 

If  I  say  1  res,   will  you  speak  to  me  ? 

Then  she  rose  and  passed  it  out  to  him,  leaning  out 
of  the  window,  and  their  faces  met. 


ZENOBIA'S    INFIDELITY. 


k 

■^ 

"^ 


c. 


"S. 


^■V;       -, 


ZENOBIA'S     INFIDELITY. 

R.  Tibbitt  stood  on  the  porch  of  Mrs.  Pen- 
nypepper's  boarding-house,  and  looked 
up  and  down  the  deserted  Main  Street 
of  Sagawaug  with  a  contented  smile, 
the  while  he  buttoned  his  driving- 
gloves.  The  little  doctor  had  good 
cause  to  be  content  with  himself  and  with 
everything  else  —  with  his  growing  practice,  with  his 
comfortable  boarding-house,  with  his  own  good-looks, 
with  his  neat  attire,  and  with  the  world  in  general.  He 
could  not  but  be  content  with  Sagawaug,  for  there  never 
was  a  prettier  country  town.  The  Doctor  looked  across 
the  street  and  picked  out  the  very  house  that  he  pro- 
posed to  buy  when  the  one  remaining  desire  of  his  soul 
was  gratified.  It  was  a  house  with  a  hip-roof  and  with  a 
long  garden  running  down  to  the  river. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  house  to-day,  but  there 
was  no  one  in  any  of  the  houses.  Not  even  a  pair  of 
round  bare  arms  was  visible  among  the  clothes  that 
waved  in  the  August  breeze  in  every  back-yard.  It  was 
Circus  Day  in  Sagawaug. 


go  "SHORT  SIXES." 

The  Doctor  was  climbing  into  his  gig  when  a  yell 
startled  him.  A  freckled  boy  with  saucer  eyes  dashed 
around  the  corner. 

"Doctor!"  he  gasped,  "  come  quick  !  The  circus 
got  a- fire  an'  the  trick  elephant 's  most  roasted  !  " 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Johnny,"  said  the  Doctor,  re- 
provingly. 

"  Hope  to  die  —  Honest  Injun —  cross  my  breast ! '' 
said  the  boy.  The  Doctor  knew  the  sacredness  of  this 
juvenile  oath. 

"  Get  in  here  with  me,"  he  said,  "  and  if  I  find 
you  're  trying  to  be  funny,  I  '11  drop  you  in  the  river." 

As  they  drove  toward  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
Johnny  told  his  tale. 

"Now,"  he  began,  "the  folks  was  all  out  of  the 
tent  after  the  show  was  over,  and  one  of  the  circus  men, 
he  went  to  the  oil-barrel  in  the  green  wagon  with  Dan'l 
in  the  Lion's  Den  onto  the  outside  of  it,  an'  he  took  in  a 
candle  an'  left  it  there,  and  fust  thing  the  barrel  busted, 
an'  he  was  n't  hurted  a  bit,  but  the  trick  elephant  she 
was  burned  awful,  an'  the  ring-tailed  baboon,  he  was 
so  scared  he  had  a  fit.  Say,  did  you  know  baboons 
had  fits?" 

When  they  reached  the  circus-grounds,  they  found 
a  crowd  around  a  small  side-show  tent.  A  strong  odor 
of  burnt  leather  confirmed  Johnny's  story.  Dr.  Tibbitt 
pushed  his  way  through  the  throng,  and  gazed  upon  the 
huge  beast,  lying  on  her  side  on  the  grass,  her  broad 
shoulder  charred  and  quivering.  Her  bulk  expanded 
and  contracted  with  spasms  of  agony,  and  from  time  to 


ZENOBIA'S  INFIDELITY.  gi 

time  she  uttered  a  moaning  sound.      On  her  head  was  a 
structure  of  red  cloth,  about  the  size  of  a  bushel-basket, 
apparently  intended  to  look  like  a  British  soldier's 
forage-cap.    This  was  secured  by  a  strap  that 
went  under  her  chin  —  if  an  elephant  has  a 
chin.   This  scarlet  cheese-box  every  now  and 
then   slipped   down    over   her  eye,   and   the 
faithful  animal  patiently,  in  all  her  anguish, 
adjusted  it  with  her  prehensile  trunk. 

By  her  side   stood    her  keeper  and  the 
proprietor  of  the  show,  a  large  man  with  a 
dyed  moustache,   a  wrinkled   face,    and  hair 
oiled  and  frizzed.      These  two  bewailed  their  lose 
alternately. 

"  The  boss  elephant  in  the  business  !  "  cried  the 
showman.  "  Barnum  never  had  no  trick  elephant  like 
Zenobia.  And  them  lynes  and  Dan'l  was  painted  in  new 
before  I  took  the  road  this  season.  Oh,  there  's  been  a 
hoodoo  on  me  since  I  showed  ag'inst  the  Sunday-school 
picnic  !  " 

"  That  there  elephant  's  been  like  my  own  child," 
groaned  the  keeper,  "  or  my  own  wife,  I  may  say.  I  've 
slep'  alongside  of  her  every  night  for  fourteen  damn 
years." 

The  Doctor  had  been  carefully  examining  his 
patient. 

"  If  there  is  any  analogy  — "  he  began. 

"  Neuralogy  !  "  snorted  the  indignant  showman; 
"  't  ain't  neuralogy,  you  jay  pill-box,  she  's  cooked !  " 

(t  If  there  is  any  analogy,"  repeated   Dr.    Tibbitt, 


g2  "SHORT   SIXES." 

flushing  a  little,  "between  her  case  and  that  of  a  human 
being,  I  think  I  can  save  your  elephant.  Get  me  a 
barrel  of  linseed  oil,  and  drive  these  people  away." 

The  Doctor's  orders  were  obeyed  with  eager  sub- 
mission. He  took  off  his  coat,  and  went  to  work.  He 
had  never  doctored  an  elephant,  and  the  job  interested 
him.  At  the  end  of  an  hour,  Zenobia's  sufferings  were 
somewhat  alleviated.  She  lay  on  her  side,  chained 
tightly  to  the  ground,  and  swaddled  in  bandages.  Her 
groans  had  ceased. 

"I'll  call  to-morrow  at  noon,"  said  the  Doctor  — 
"good  gracious,  what's  that?"  Zenobia's  trunk  was 
playing  around  his  waistband. 

"  She  wants  to  shake  hands  with  you,"  her 
keeper  explained.  "  She  's  a  lady,  she  is,  and  she 
knows  you  done  her  good." 

"I  'd  rather  not  have  any  thing  of  the  sort,"  said 
the  Doctor,  decisively. 

When  Dr.  Tibbitt  called  at  twelve  on  the  morrow, 
he  found  Zenobia's  tent  neatly  roped  in,  an  amphitheatre 
of  circus-benches  constructed  around  her,  and  this 
ampnitheatre  packed  with  people. 

"  Got  a  quarter  apiece  from  them  jays,"  whispered 
ihe  showman,  "jest  to  see  you  dress  them  wownds." 
Subsequently  the  showman  relieved  his  mind  to  a  casual 
acquaintance.  "  He  's  got  a  heart  like  a  gun-flint,  that 
doctor,"  he  said;  "made  me  turn  out  every  one  of  them 
jays  and  give  'em  their  money  back  before  he  'd  lay  a 
hand  to  Zenobia. " 

But  if  the  Doctor  suppressed  the  clinic,  neither  he 


ZENOBIA'S  INFIDELITY. 


93 


nor  the  showman  suffered.  From  dawn  till  dusk  people 
came  from  miles  around  to  stare  a  quarter's  worth  at  the 
burnt  elephant.  Once  in  a  while,  as  a  rare  treat,  the 
keeper  lifted  a  corner  of  her  bandages,  and  revealed  the 
seared  flesh.  The  show  went  off  in  a  day  or  two,  leav- 
ing Zenobia  to  recover  at  leisure ;  and  as  it  wandered 
westward,  it  did  an  increased  business  simply  because  it 
had  had  a  burnt  trick  elephant.  Such,  dear  friends,  is 
the  human  mind. 

The   Doctor  fared  even  better.      The  fame  of  his 
new  case  spread  far  and  wide.      People  seemed  to  think 
that  if  he  could  cure  an  elephant 
he  could  cure  any  thing.      He  was 
called     into      consultation      in 
neighboring  towns.      Women 
in    robust  health    imagined 
ailments,   so  as  to  send  for 
him   and  ask  him  shudder- 
ing questions    about    "  that 
wretched  animal."  The  trust- 
ees of  the  orphan-asylum  made 
him  staff-physician  —  in  this  case 

the  Doctor  thought  he  could  trace  a  connection  of  ideas, 
in  which  children  and  a  circus  were  naturally  associated. 
And  the  local  newspaper  called  him  a  savant. 

He  called  every  day  upon  Zenobia,  who  greeted 
him  with  trumpetings  of  joyful  welcome.  She  also 
desired  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and  her  keeper  had  to 
sit  on  her  head  and  hold  her  trunk  to  repress  the  famil- 
iarity.    In  two  weeks  she  was  cured,  except  for  extensive 


g4  •'SHORT    SIXES." 

and  permanent  scars,  and  she  waited  only  for  a  favorable 
opportunity  to  rejoin  the  circus. 

The  Doctor  had  got  his  fee  in  advance. 


Upon  a  sunny  afternoon  in  the  last  of  August, 
Dr.  Tibbitt  jogged  slowly  toward  Sagawaug  in  his  neat 
little  gig.  He  had  been  to  Pelion,  the  next  town,  to 
call  upon  Miss  Minetta  Bunker,  the  young  lady  whom 
he  desired  to  install  in  the  house  with  the  garden  run- 
ning down  to  the  river.  He  had  found  her  starting  out 
for  a  drive  in  Tom  Matson's  dog-cart.  Now,  the  Doctor 
feared  no  foe,  in  medicine  or  in  love;  but  when  a  young 
woman  is  inscrutable  as  to  the  state  of  her  affections, 
when  the  richest  young  man  in  the  county  is  devoting 
himself  to  her,  and  when  the  young  lady's  mother  is 
backing  the  rich  man,  a  young  country  doctor  may  well 
feel  perplexed  and  anxious  over  his  chance  of  the  prize. 

The  Doctor  was  so  troubled,  indeed,  that  he  paid 
no  heed  to  a  heavy,  repeated  thud  behind  him,  on  the 
macadamized  road.  His  gentle  little  mare  heard  it, 
though,  and  began  to  curvet  and  prance.  The  Doctor 
was  pulling  her  in,  and  calming  her  with  a  "  Soo  — 
Soo  —  down,  girl,  down !  "  when  he  interrupted  him- 
self to  shout : 

"  Great  Caesar  !   get  off  me  !  " 

Something  like  a  yard  of  rubber  hose  had  come  in 
through  the  side  of  the  buggy,  and  was  rubbing  itself 
against  his  face.  He  looked  around,  and  the  cold  sweat 
stood  out  on  him  as  he  saw  Zenobia,  her  chain  dragging 


Z&NOBlA'S  INFIDELITY 


95 


from  her  hind-foot,  her  red  cap  a-cock  on  her  head, 
trotting  along  by  the  side  of  his  vehicle,  snorting  with 
joy,  and  evidently  bent  on  lavishing  her  pliant,  ser- 
pentine, but  leathery  caresses  upon  his  person. 

His  fear  vanished  in  a  moment.      The 
animal's  intentions  were   certainly  pacific,  t     *£& 

to  put  it  mildly.     He  reflected  that  if  fv^Al, 

he  could  keep  his  horse  ahead  of  As£     ^mf^t?}^ 


;^J^Sl 


her,  he  could  toll  her  around 
the  block  and  back  toward 
her  tent.     He   had  hardly 
guessed,  as  yet,  the  depth 
of   the    impression    which 
he  had  made  upon  Zeno- 
bia's    heart,   which    must 
have  been  a  large  organ,      _J| 
if  the  size  of  her  ears  was 
any  indication  - —  according  to 
the  popular  theory. 

He  was  on  the  very  edge  of  the  town,  and  his  road 
took  him  by  a  house  where  he  had  a  new  and  highly 
valued  patient,  the  young  wife  of  old  Deacon  Burgee. 
Her  malady  being  of  a  nature  that  permitted  it,  Mrs. 
Burgee  was  in  the  habit  of  sitting  at  her  window  when 
the  Doctor  made  his  rounds,  and  indicating  the  satisfac- 
tory state  of  her  health  by  a  bow  and  a  smile.  On  this 
occasion  she  fled  from  the  window  with  a  shriek.  Her 
mother,  a  formidable  old  lady  under  a  red  false-front, 
came  to  the  window,  shrieked  likewise,  and  slammed 
down  the  sash. 


go 


'short  sixes: 


The  Doctor  tolled  his  elephant  around  the  block 
without   further   misadventure,  and   they   started   up  the 
road  toward  Zenobia's  tent,  Zenobia  caressing  her  bene- 
factor while  shudders  of  antipathy  ran  _x>ver  his  frame. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  keeper  hove  in  sight.      Zenobia 
saw  him  first,  blew  a  shrill  blast  on  her  trumpet,  close 
to  the  Doctor's  ear,  bolted  through  a  snake  fence,  lum- 
bered across  a  turnip-field,  and  disappeared  in  a  patch 
of  woods,  leaving  the  Doctor  to  quiet  his  excited  horse 
and  to  face  the  keeper,  who  ad- 
vanced with  rage  in  his  eye. 
"What  do  you  mean,  you 
cuss,"  he  began,   "weaning 
a  man's  elephant's  affections 
away  from  him  ?     You  ain't 
got  no  more  morals  than  a 
Turk,  you  ain't.      That  ele- 
phant an'  me  has  been  side- 
partners  for  fourteen  years,  an' 
here  you  come  between  us." 
"I  don't  want  your  confounded  elephant,"  roared 
the  Doctor;    "why  don't  you  keep  it  chained  up?" 
"She  busted   her  chain   to   git  after  you,"  replied 
the  keeper.     "Oh,  I  seen  you  two  lally-gaggin'  all  along 
the  road.      I  knowed  you  wa'n't  no  good  the  first  time  I 
set  eyes   on   yer,  a-sayin'    hoodoo  words   over  the   poor 
dumb  beast." 

The  Doctor  resolved  to  banish  "  analogy  "  from  his 
vocabulary. 


ZENOBIA  S  INFIDELITY.  Qf 

The  next  morning,  about  four  o'clock,  Dr.  Tibbitt 
awoke  with  a  troubled  mind.  He  had  driven  home  after 
midnight  from  a  late  call,  and  he  had  had  an  uneasy 
fancy  that  he  saw  a  great  shadowy  bulk  ambling  along 
in  the  mist-hid  fields  by  the  roadside.  He  jumped  out 
of  bed  and  went  to  the  window.  Below  him,  completely 
covering  Mrs.  Pennypepper's  nasturtium  bed,  her  pre- 
hensile trunk  ravaging  the  early  chrysanthemums,  stood 
Zenobia,  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  dew  glistening  on  her 
seamed  sides  beneath  the  early  morning  sunlight.  The 
Doctor  hastily  dressed  himself  and  slipped  downstairs 
and  out,  to  meet  this  Frankenstein's-monster  of  affection. 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  do.  Zenobia  would  fol- 
low him  wherever  he  went  —  she  rushed  madly  through 
Mrs.  Pennypepper's  roses  to  greet  him  —  and  his  only 
course  was  to  lead  her  out  of  the  town  before  people 
began  to  get  up,  and  to  detain  her  in  some  remote 
meadow  until  he  could  get  her  keeper  to  come  for  her 
and  secure  her  by  force  or  stratagem.  He  set  off  by  the 
least  frequented  streets,  and  he  experienced  a  pang  of 
horror  as  he  remembered  that  his  way  led  him  past  the 
house  of  his  one  professional  rival  in  Sagawaug.  Sup- 
pose Dr.  Pettengill  should  be  coming  home  or  going  out 
as  he  passed ! 

He  did  not  meet  Dr.  Pettengill.  He  did  meet 
Deacon  Burgee,  who  stared  at  him  with  more  of  rage 
than  of  amazement  in  his  wrinkled  countenance.  The 
Deacon  was  carrying  a  large  bundle  of  embroidered  linen 
and  flannel,  that  must  have  been  tied  up  in  a  hurry. 

"  Good  morning,  Deacon,"  the  Doctor  hailed  him, 


Q8 


SHORT  sixes:' 


with    as    much    ease    of   manner   as   he    could   assume. 
"  How  's  Mrs.  Burgee?  " 

"  She  's  doin'  fust  rate,  no  thanks  to  no  circus  doc- 
tors !  "  snorted  the  Deacon.      "  An'  if  you  want  to  know 
any  thing  further  concernin'  her 
health,  you  ask  Dr.  Pettengill. 
He  's  got  more  sense  than 
to  go   trailin'   around 
the  streets  with  a  par- 
boiled elephant  be- 
hind him,  a-fright- 
ening  women-folks 
a  hull  month  afore 
the'r  time." 

"Why,  Deacon!" 
cried  the  Doctor, 
"what  —  what  is 
it?" 

"It  's  a  boy," 
responded  the  Dea- 
con, sternly;  "  and 
it  's  God's  own  mercy  that  't  wa'n't  born  with  a  trunk 
and  a  tail." 


The  Doctor  found  a  secluded  pasture,  near  the 
woods  that  encircled  the  town,  and  there  he  sat  him 
down,  in  the  corner  of  a  snake-fence,  to  wait  until  some 
farmer  or  market-gardener  should  pass  by,  to  carry  his 
message  to  the  keeper.      He  had  another   message   to 


IRNObtA'S  INFIDELITY.  $9 

send,  tOd.  He  had  several  cases  that  must  be  attended 
to  at  once.  Unless  he  could  get  away  from  his  pachy- 
dermatous familiar,  Pettengill  mUst  care  for  his  cases 
that  morning.      It  was  hard  —  but  what  was  he  to  do? 

Zenobia  stood  by  his  side*  dividing  her  attention 
between  the  caresses  she  bestowed  on  him  and  the  care 
she  was  obliged  to  take  of  her  red  cap,  which  was  not 
tightly  strapped  on,  and  slipped  in  various  directions  at 
every  movement  of  her  gigantic  head.  She  was  unmis- 
takably happy.  From  time  to  time  she  trumpeted 
cheerily.  She  plucked  up  tufts  of  grass,  and  offered 
them  to  the  Doctor.  He  refused  them,  and  she  ate  them 
herself.  Once  he  took  a  daisy  from  her,  absent-mindedly, 
and  she  was  so  greatly  pleased  that  she  smashed  his  hat 
in  her  endeavors  to  pet  him.  The  Doctor  was  a  kind- 
hearted  man.  He  had  to  admit  that  Zenobia  meant  well. 
He  patted  her  trunk,  and  made  matters  worse.  Her 
elephantine  ecstasy  came  near  being  the  death  of  him. 

Still  the  farmer  came  not,  nor  the  market-gardener. 
Dr.  Tibbitt  began  to  believe  that  he  had  chosen  a 
meadow  that  was  too  secluded.  At  last  two  boys  ap- 
peared. After  they  had  stared  at  him  and  at  Zenobia 
for  half-an-hour,  one  of  them  agreed  to  produce  Dr. 
Pettengill  and  Zenobia's  keeper  for  fifty  cents.  Dr. 
Pettengill  was  the  first  to  arrive.  He  refused  to  come 
nearer  than  the  furthest  limit  of  the  pasture. 

"Hello,  Doctor,"  he  called  out,  "hear  you  've  been 
seeing  elephants.  Want  me  to  take  your  cases?  Guess 
I  can.  Got  a  half-hour  free.  Brought  some  bromide 
down  for  you,  if  you  'd  like  to  try  it. " 


too 


SHORT  SIXES." 


To  judge  from  his  face,  Zenobia  was  invisible.     But 
his  presence  alarmed  that  sensitive  animal.    She  crowded 
up  close   to   the  fence,  and  every  time  she   flicked  her 
skin  to  shake  off  the  flies  she  endangered 
the  equilibrium  of  the  Doctor,  who  was 
sitting  on  the  top  rail,   for   dignity's 
sake.    He  shouted  his  directions  to  his 
colleague,  who  shouted  back  profes- 
sional criticisms. 
"Salicylate  of  soda  for  that  old  woman? 
What 's  the  matter  with  salicylate  of  cin- 
chonidia?  Don't  want  to  kill  her  before  you 
get  out  of  this  swamp,  do  you?" 
Dr.    Tibbitt  was  not  a  profane  man ;    but  at 
this  moment  he  could  not  restrain  himself. 
"Damn  you/"  he  said,  with  such  vigor  that  the 
elephant  gave  a  convulsive  start.      The   Doctor  felt   his 
seat   depart    from    under   him  —  he  was   going  —  going 
into  space  for  a  brief  moment,  and  then  he  scrambled 
up    out    of   the    soft    mud    of    the    cow-wallow  back  of 
the  fence  on  which  he  had  been  sitting.      Zenobia  had 
backed  against  the  fence. 

The  keeper  arrived  soon  after.  He  had  only 
reached  the  meadow  when  Zenobia  lifted  her  trunk  in 
the  air,  emitted  a  mirthful  toot,  and  struck  out  for  the 
woods  with  the  picturesque  and  cumbersome  gallop  of  a 
mastodon   pup. 

"  Dern  you,"  said  the  keeper  to  Dr.  Tibbitt,  who 
was  trying  to  fasten  his  collar,  which  had  broken  loose 
in  his  fall;    "if  the  boys  was  here,  and  I  hollered   'Hey 


2.EN0BIAS  INFIDELITY.  tot 

Rube !  '  —  there  would  n't  be  enough  left  of  yer  to 
spread  a  plaster  fer  a  baby's  bile !  " 

The  Doctor  made  himself  look  as  decent  as  the 
situation  allowed,  and  then  he  marched  toward  the 
town  with  the  light  of  a  firm  resolve  illuminating  his 
face.  The  literature  of  his  childhood  had  come  to  his 
aid.  He  remembered  the  unkind  tailor  who  pricked  the 
elephant's  trunk.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  tailor  was 
a  rather  good  fellow. 

"  If  that  elephant's  disease  is  gratitude,"  thought 
the  Doctor,  "  I  '11  give  her  an  antidote." 

He  went  to  the  drug-store,  and,  as  he  went,  he 
pulled  out  a  blank  pad  and  wrote  down  a  prescription, 
from  mere  force  of  habit.      It  read  thus: 

PESSELS  &  MORTON, 

Druggists, 

Commercial  Block,    Main    Street,    Sagawaug. 
m~  PRESCRIPTIONS   CAREFULLY   COMPOUNDED.  ■=©& 


^  ^£^~~~    ^-  f  y- 


r 


LC^HJC~~~~> 


ioz 


'SHORT  S/XES: 


When  the  druggist  looked  at  it,  he  was  taken  short 
of  breath. 

"  What  's  this ?  "  he  asked  —  "a  bombshell  ?  " 
"Put  it  up,"  said  the  Doctor,  "and  don't  talk  so 
much."  He  lingered  nervously  on  the  druggist's  steps, 
looking  up  and  down  the  street.  He  had  sent  a  boy  to 
order  the  stable-man  to  harness  his  gig.  By-and-by, 
the  druggist  put  his  head  out  of  the  door. 

"I  've  got  some  asafcetida  pills,"  he  said,  "that 
are  kind  o'  tired,  and  half  a  pound  of  whale-oil  soap 
that  's  higher  'n  Haman  — " 

"Put  'em  in!"  said  the  Doctor,  grimly,  as  he  saw 
Zenobia  coming  in  sight  far  down  the  street. 
She  came  up  while  the  Doctor  was  waiting 
for  the  bolus.     Twenty-three  boys  were 
watching  them,  although  it  was  only 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

"Down,  Zenobia!"  said  the 
Doctor,  thoughtlessly,  as  he 
might  have  addressed  a  dog. 
He  was  talking  with  the  drug- 
gist, and  Zenobia  was  patting  his 
ear  with  her  trunk.  Zenobia  sank 
to  her  knees.  The  Doctor  did  not 
notice  her.  She  folded  her  trunk  about 
him,  lifted  him  to  her  back,  rose,  with  a 
heave  and  a  sway,  to  her  feet,  and  started  up  the  road. 
The  boys  cheered.  The  Doctor  got  off  on  the  end  of 
an  elm-branch.  His  descent  was  watched  from  nineteen 
second-story  windows. 


ZENOBIA'S  INFIDELITY.  103 

His  gig  came  to  meet  him  at  last,  and  he  entered 
it  and  drove  rapidly  out  of  town,  with  Zenobia  trotting 
contentedly  behind  him.  As  soon  as  he  had  passed 
Deacon  Burgee's  house,  he  drew  rein,  and  Zenobia 
approached,  while  his  perspiring  mare  stood  on  her 
hind-legs. 

"  Zenobia  —  pill !  "  said  the  Doctor. 

As  she  had  often  done  in  her  late  illness,  Zenobia 
opened  her  mouth  at  the  word  of  command,  and  swal- 
lowed the  infernal  bolus.  Then  they  started  up  again, 
and  the  Doctor  headed  for  Zenobia's  tent.        , 

But  Zenobia's  pace  was  sluggish.  She  had  been 
dodging  about  the  woods  for  two  nights,  and  she  was 
tired.  When  the  Doctor  whipped  up,  she  seized  the 
buggy  by  any  convenient  projection,  and  held  it  back. 
This  damaged  the  buggy  and  frightened  the  horse;  but 
it  accomplished  Zenobia's  end.  It  was  eleven  o'clock 
before  Jake  Bumgardner's  "  Half- Way-House  "  loomed 
up  white,  afar  down  the  dusty  road,  and  the  Doctor 
knew  that  his  round-about  way  had  at  length  brought 
him  near  to  the  field  where  the  circus-tent  had  been 
pitched. 

He  drove  on  with  a  lighter  heart  in  his  bosom.  He 
had  not  heard  Zenobia  behind  him,  for  some  time.  He 
did  not  know  what  had  become  of  her,  or  what  she  was 
doing,  but  he  learned  later. 

The  Doctor  had  compounded  a  pill  well  calculated 
to  upset  Zenobia's  stomach.  That  it  would  likewise  give 
her  a  consuming  thirst  he  had  not  considered.  But 
chemistry  was  doing  its  duty  without  regard  to  him.      A 


io4 


SHORT   SIXES. 


thirst  like  a  furnace  burned  within  Zenobia.  Capsicum 
and  chloride  of  lime  were  doing  their  work.  She  gasped 
and  groaned.  She  searched  for  water.  She  filled  her 
trunk  at  a  wayside  trough  and  poured  the  contents  into 
her  mouth.  Then  she  sucked  up  a  puddle  or  two. 
Then  she  came  to  Bumgardner's,  where  a  dozen  kegs 
of  lager-beer  and  a  keg  of  what  passed  at  Bumgardner's 
for  gin  stood  on  the  sidewalk.  Zenobia's  circus  expe- 
rience had  taught  her  what  a  water-barrel  meant.  She 
applied  her  knowledge.  With  her  forefoot  she  deftly 
staved  in  the  head  of  one  keg  after  another,  and  with 
her  trunk  she  drew  up  the  beer  and  the  gin,  and  delivered 
them  to  her  stomach.  If  you  think  her  taste  at  fault, 
remember  the  bolus. 


r      7~~—~[ 

Bumgardner  rushed  out  and  assailed  her  with  a 
bung-starter.  She  turned  upon  him  and  squirted  lager- 
beer  over  him  until  he  was  covered  with  an  iridescent 
lather  of  foam  from  head  to  foot.  Then  she  finished  the 
kegs  and  went  on  her  way,  to  overtake  the  Doctor. 
t  *  *  *  * 


ZENOBIA' S  INFIDELITY. 


105 


The  Doctor 


The  Doctor  was  speeding  his  mare  merrily  along, 
grateful  for  even  a  momentary  relief  from  Zenobia's 
attentions,  when,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  he  heard  a 
heavy,  uncertain  thumping  on  the  road  behind  him,  and 
the  quick  patter  of  a  trotter's  hoofs  on  the  road  ahead 
of  him.  He  glanced  behind  him  first,  and  saw  Zenobia. 
She  swayed  from  side  to  side,  more  than  was  her  wont. 
Her  red  cap  was  far  down  over  her  left  eye.  Her  aspect 
was  rakish,  and  her  gait  was  unsteady, 
did  not  know  it,   but  Zenobia  was  drunk. 

Zenobia  was  sick,  but  intoxica- 
tion dominated  her  sickness.      Even 
sulphide  of  calcium  withdrew  court- 
eously   before   the   might   of 
and  gin.      Rocking  from  side 
side,  reeling  across  the  road 
and    back,     trumpeting    in 
imbecile  inexpressive  tones, 
Zenobia  advanced. 

The    Doctor    looked 
forward.   Tom  Matson  sat  in 
his  dog-cart,  with  Miss  Bunker  by 

his  side.  His  horse  had  caught  sight  of  Zenobia,  and 
he  was  rearing  high  in  air,  and  whinnying  in  terror. 
Before  Tom  could  pull  him  down,  he  made  a  sudden 
break,  overturned  the  dog-cart,  and  flung  Tom  and  Miss 
Minetta  Bunker  on  a  bank  by  the  side  of  the  road.  It 
was  a  soft  bank,  well-grown  with  mint  and  stinging- 
nettles,  just  above  a  creek.  Tom  had  scarce  landed  be- 
fore he  was  up  and  off,  running  hard  across  the  fields. 


ro6  -SHORT    SIXES." 

Miss  Minetta  rose  and  looked  at  him  with  fire  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Well !  "  she  said  aloud;  "  I  'd  like  Mother  to  see 
you  now  /  " 

The  Doctor  had  jumped  out  of  his  gig  and  let  his 
little  mare  go  galloping  up  the  road.  He  had  his  arm 
about  Miss  Minetta's  waist  when  he  turned  to  face  his 
familiar  demon  —  which  may  have  accounted  for  the 
pluck  in  his  face. 

But  Zenobia  was  a  hundred  yards  down  the  road, 
and  she  was  utterly  incapable  of  getting  any  further. 
She  trumpeted  once  or  twice,  then  she  wavered  like  a 
reed  in  the  wind ;  her  legs  weakened  under  her,  and  she 
sank  on  her  side,  Her  red  cap  had  slipped  down,  and 
she  picked  it  up  with  her  trunk,  broke  its  band  in  a 
reckless  swing  that  resembled  the  wave  of  jovial  farewell, 
gave  one  titanic  hiccup,  and  fell  asleep  by  the  road-side. 


An  hour  later,  Dr.  Tibbitt  was  driving  toward 
Pelion,  with  Miss  Bunker  by  his  side.  His  horse  had 
been  stopped  at  the  toll-gate.  He  was  driving  with  one 
hand.  Perhaps  he  needed  the  other  to  show  how  they 
could  have  a  summer-house^  in  the  garden  that  ran 
down  to  the  river. 


But  it  was  evening  when  Zenobia  awoke  to  find  her 
keeper  sitting  on   her  head.      He  jabbed  a  cotton-hook 


ZE  NO  BIAS  INFIDELITY. 


107 


firmly  and  decisively  into  her  ear,  and  led  her  home- 
ward down  the  road  lit  by  the  golden  sunset.  That  was 
the  end  of  Zenobia's  infidelity. 


THE    NINE    CENT-GIRLS. 


^ 
b 


3 


THE    NINE    CENT-GIRLS. 


MISS  BESSIE  VAUX,  of  Baltimore,  paid  a  visit  to  her 
aunt,   the   wife   of  the    Commandant   at   old  Fort 
Starbuck,  Montana.      She  had  at  her  small  feet  all  the 
garrison    and    some   two   dozen    young 
ranch  -  owners,    the    flower    of    the 
younger  sons   of  the   best   society 
of  New  York,   Boston,   and  Phila- 
delphia.    Thirty-seven  notches  in 
the    long    handle   of    her    parasol 
told  the  story  of  her  three  months' 
stay.   The  thirty-seventh  was  final. 
She    accepted    a    measly    Second- 
Lieutenant,  and  left  all  the  bachelors 
for  thirty  miles  around  the  Fort  to  mourn  her  and  to 
curse  the  United  States  Army.      This  is  the  proem. 


Mr.  John  Winfield,  proprietor  of  the  Winfield 
Ranch,  sat  a-straddle  a  chair  in  front  of  the  fire  in  his 
big  living  room,  and  tugged  at  his  handsome  black 
beard  as  he  discussed  the  situation  with   his  foreman, 


Its  "SHORT   SIXES." 

who  was  also  his  confidant,  his  best  friend  and  his  old 
college  mate.  Mr.  Richard  Cutter  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  fire,  twirled  a  very  blonde  moustache  and  smoked 
cigarettes  continually  while  he  ministered  to  his  suffering 
friend,  who  was  sore  wounded  in  his  vanity,  having  been 
notch  No.  36  on  Miss  Vaux's  parasol.  Uick  had  been 
notch  No.  1  ;    but  Dick  was  used  to  that  sort  of  thing. 

"By  thunder,"  said  Mr.  Winfield,  "I'm  going  to 
get  married  this  year,  if  I  have  to  marry  a  widow  with 
six  children.  And  I  guess  I  '11  have  to.  I  've  been  ten 
years  in  this  girlless  wilderness,  and  I  never  did  know 
any  girls  to  speak  of,  at  home.  Now  you,  you  always 
everlastingly  knew  girls.  What  's  that  place  you  lived  at 
in  New  York  State  —  where  there  were  so  many  girls?" 

"Tusculum,"  replied  Mr.  Cutter,  in  a  tone  of  com- 
placent reminiscence.  "Nice  old  town,  plastered  so  thick 
with  mortgages  that  you  can't  grow  flowers  in  the  front 
yard.  All  the  fellows  strike  for  New  York  as  soon  as  they 
begin  to  shave.  The  crop  of  girls  remains,  and  they 
wither  on  the  stem.  Why,  one  Winter  they  had  a  hump- 
backed man  for  their  sole  society  star  in  the  male  line. 
Nice  girls,  too.  Old  families.  Pretty,  lots  of  them.  Good 
form,  too,  for  provincials." 

"Gad!"  said  Jack  Winfield,  "I  'd  like  to  live  in 
Tusculum  for  a  year  or  so." 

"No,  you  would  n't.  It's  powerful  dull.  But  the 
girls  were  nice.      Now,  there  were  the  Nine  Cent-Girls." 

"The  Nine-cent  Girls?" 

"No,  the  Nine  Cent-Girls.  Catch  the  difference? 
They  were  the  daughters  of  old  Bailey,  the  civil  engineer. 


THE  NINE  CENT-GIRLS.  t/j 

Nine  of  'em,  ranging  from  twenty-two,  when  I  was  there 

—  that 's  ten  years  ago  —  down  to  —  oh,  I   don't  know 

—  a  kid  in  a  pinafore.  All  looked  just  alike,  barring 
age,  and  every  one  had  the  face  of  the  Indian  lady  on 
the  little  red  cent.  Do  you  remember  the  Indian  lady 
on  the  little  red  cent?" 

"  Hold  on,"  suggested  Jack,  rising;  "  I  've  got  one. 
I  've  had  it  ever  since  I  came."  He  unlocked  his  desk, 
rummaged  about  in  its  depths,  and  produced  a  specimen 
of  the  neatest  and  most  artistic  coin  that  the  United 
States  government  has  ever  struck. 

"That's  it,"  said  Dick,  holding  the  coppery  disk 
in  his  palm.  "It  would  do  for  a  picture  of  any  one 
of  'em  —  only  the  Bailey  girls  did  n't  wear  feathers  in 
their  hair.  But  there  they  were,  nine  of  'em,  nice  girls, 
every  way,  and  the  whole  lot  named  out  of  the  classics. 
Old  Bailey  was  strong  on  the  classics.  His  great-grand- 
father named  Tusculum,  and  Bailey's  own  name  was 
M.  Cicero  Bailey.  So  he  called  all  his  girls  by  heathen 
names,  and  had  a  row  with  the  parson  every  christening. 
Let  me  see  —  there  was  Euphrosyne,  and  Clelia,  and 
Lydia,   and  Flora   and   Aurora  —  those  were  the  twins 

—  I  was  sweet  on  one  of  the  twins  —  and  Una  —  and, 
oh,  I  can't  remember  them  all.  But  they  were  mighty 
nice  girls." 

"Probably  all  married  by  this  time,"  Jack  groaned. 
"Let  me  look  at  that  cent."  He  held  it  in  the  light  of 
the  fire,  and  gazed  thoughtfully  upon  it. 

"  Not  a  one,"  Dick  assured  him.  "  I  met  a  chap 
from  Tusculum   last   time    I    was   in   Butte  City,   and  I 


tl4  "SMORT  SIXES" 

asked  him.  He  said  there  'd  been  only  one  wedding  in 
Tusculum  in  three  years*  and  then  the  local  paper  had 
a  wire  into  the  church  and  got  out  extras." 

"What  sort  of  girls  were  they?"  Winfield  asked* 
still  regarding  the  coin. 

"Just  about  like  that,  for  looks.  Let  me  see  it 
again."  Dick  examined  the  cent  critically,  and  slipped 
it  into  his  pocket,  in  an  absent-minded  way.  "  Just 
about  like  that.  First  rate  girls.  Old  man  was  as  poor 
as  a  church  mouse ;  but  you  would  never  have  known  it, 
the  way  that  house  was  run.  Bright  girls,  too  —  at 
least,  my  twin  was.  I  've  forgotten  which  twin  it  was ; 
but  she  was  too  bright  for  me." 

"And  how  old  did  you  say  they  were?  How  old 
was  the  youngest  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Dick,  with  a  bachelor's 
vagueness  on  the  question  of  a  child's  age,  "five  —  six 
—  seven,  may  be.      Ten  years  ago,  you  know." 

"Just  coming  in  to  grass,"  observed  Mr.  Winfield, 
meditatively. 


Two  months  after  the  evening  on  which  this  con- 
versation took  place,  Mr.  Richard  Cutter  walked  up  one 
of  the  quietest  and  most  eminently  respectable  of  the 
streets  of  Tusculum. 

Mr.  Cutter  was  nervous.  He  was,  for  the  second 
time,  making  up  his  mind  to  attempt  a  difficult  and 
delicate  task.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  it,  or  had 
had  it  made  up  for  him ;   but  now  he  felt  himself  obliged 


THE  NINE  CENT-GIRLS. 


"5 


to  go  over  the  whole  process  in  his  memory,  in  order  to 
assure  himself  that  the  mind  was  really  made  up. 

The  suggestion  had  come  from  Winfield.  He  re- 
membered with  what  a  dazed  incomprehension  he  had 
heard  his  chum's  proposition  to  induce  Mr.  Bailey  and 
all  his  family  to  migrate  to  Montana  and  settle  at 
Starbuck. 

"We  '11  give  the  old  man  all  the  surveying  he 
wants.  And  he  can  have  Ashford's  place  on  the  big 
dam  when  Ashford  goes  East  in  August.  Why,  the  finger 
of  Providence  is  pointing  Bailey  straight  for   Starbuck." 

With  a  clearer  remembrance  of  Eastern  conven- 
tionalities than  Mr.  Winfield,  Dick  Cutter  had  suggested 
various  obstacles  in  the  way  of  this  apparently  simple 
scheme.  But  Winfield  would  hear  of  no  opposition, 
and  he  joined   with   him    eight  other  young  .-, 

ranchmen,  who  entered  into  the  idea  with  ^*r~(J&fil 

wild  Western  enthusiasm  and  an   Ar- 
cadian simplicity  that    could  see 
no  chance   of   failure.      These 
energetic   youths    subscribed  a 
generous  fund  to  defray  the  ex- 
penses of  Mr.  Cutter  as  a  missionary 
to  Tusculum ;    and  Mr.  Cutter  had  found  himself  com- 
mitted to  the  venture  before  he  knew  it. 

Now,  what  had  seemed  quite  feasible  in  Starbuck's 
wilds  wore  a  different  face  in  prim  and  proper  Tuscu- 
lum. It  dawned  on  Mr.  Cutter  that  he  was  about  to 
make  a  most  radical  and  somewhat  impudent  proposition 
to  a  conservative  old  gentleman.      The  atmosphere  of 


Il6 


SHORT    SIXES." 


Tusculum  weighed  heavy  on  its  spirits,  which  were  light 
and  careless  enough  in  his  adopted  home  in  Montana. 

Therefore  Mr.  Cutter  found  his  voice  very  uncertain 
as  he  introduced  himself  to  the  young  lady  who  opened, 
at  his  ring,  the  front  door  of  one  of  the  most  respectable 
houses  in  that  respectable  street  of  Tusculum. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  said,  wondering  which  one 
of  the  Nine  Cent-Girls  he  saw  before  him ;  and  then, 
noting  a  few  threads  of  gray  in  her  hair,  he  ventured : 

"It's  Miss  —  Miss  Euphrosyne,  is  n't  it?  You 
don't  remember  me  —  Mr.  Cutter,  Dick  Cutter?  Used 
to  live  on  Ovid  Street.      Can  I  see  your  father  ? " 

"My  father?"  repeated  Miss  Euphrosyne,  looking 
a  little  frightened. 

"  Yes  —  I  just  want  —  " 

"Why,    Mr.    Cutter  —  I   do 

remember    you    now  —  did  n't 

you  know  that  Papa  died  nine 

years  ago  —  the  year  after  you 

-  c         left  Tusculum?" 

Dick  Cutter  leaned  against  the  door- 
jamb  and  stared  speechlessly  at  Euphro- 
syne. He  noted  vaguely  that  she  looked 
much  the  same  as  when  he  had  last  seen  her,  except 
that  she  looked  tired  and  just  a  shade  sad.  When  he 
was  able  to  think,  he  said  that  he  begged  her  pardon. 
Then  she  smiled,  faintly. 

"We  could  n't  expect  you  to  know,"  she  said, 
simply.      "Won't  you  come  in?" 

"N-N-No,"  stuttered  Dick.      "  I-I-I '11  call  later  — 


THE  NINE  CENT-GIRLS. 


117 


this  evening,  if  you  don't  mind.  Ah  —  ah — good  day." 
And  he  fled  to  his  hotel,  to  pull  himself  together,  leav- 
ing Miss  Euphrosyne  smiling. 

He  sat  alone  in  his  room  all  the  afternoon,  ponder- 
ing over  the  shipwreck  of  his  scheme.  What  should  he 
tell  the  boys  ?  What  would  the  boys  say  ?  Why  had 
he  not  thought  to  write  before  he  came  ?  Why  on  earth 
had  Bailey  taken  it  into  his  head  to  die  ? 

After  supper,  he  resolved  to  call  as  he  had  prom- 
ised. Mrs.  Bailey,  he  knew,  had  died  a  year  after  the 
appearance  of  her  ninth  daughter.  But,  he  thought, 
with  reviving  hope,  there  might  be  a  male  head  to  the 
family  —  an  uncle,  perhaps. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Clytie,  the  youngest  of  the 
nine.  She  ushered  him  at  once  into  a  bright  little 
parlor,  hung  around  with  dainty  things  in  artistic  needle- 
work and  decorative  painting.  A  big  lamp  glowed  on  a 
centre-table,  and  around  it  sat  seven  of  the  sisters,  each 
one  engaged  in  some  sort  of  work, 
sewing,  embroidering  or  de- 
signing-.    Nearest  the  lamp      £>'t''''^~v^%\'.ti-»    jl^'Ju 


sat  Euphrosyne,  reading 
Macaulay  aloud.  She  stop- 
ped as  he  entered,  and  wel 
corned    him   in   a   half-timid  "^ 

but    wholly   friendly    fashion. 

Dick  sat  down,  very  much  embarrassed,  in  spite 
of  the  greeting.  It  was  many  years  since  he  had  talked 
to  nine  ladies  at  once.  And,  in  truth,  a  much  less  em- 
barrassed man  might  have  found  himself  more  or  less 


uS  "SHORT  SIXES." 

troubled  to  carry  on  a  conversation  with  nine  young 
women  who  looked  exactly  like  each  other,  except  for  the 
delicate  distinctions  of  age  which  a  masculine  stranger 
might  well  be  afraid  to  note.  Dick  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  of  the  placid  classic  faces,  and  could  not  help 
having  an  uneasy  idea  that  each  new  girl  that  he  ad- 
dressed was  only  the  last  one  who  had  slipped  around 
the  table  and  made  herself  look  a  year  or  two  older  or 
younger. 

But  after  a  while  the  pleasant,  genial,  social  atmos- 
phere of  the  room,  sweet  with  a  delicate,  winning  vir- 
ginity, thawed  out  his  awkward  reserve,  and  Dick  began 
to  talk  of  the  West  and  Western  life  until  the  nine  pairs 
of  blue  eyes,  stretched  to  their  widest,  fixed  upon  him  as 
a  common  focus.  It  was  eleven  when  he  left,  with  many 
apologies  for  his  long  call.  He  found  the  night  and  the 
street  uncommonly  dark,  empty  and  depressing. 

';Just  the  outfit!"  he  observed  to  himself.  "And 
old  Bailey  dead  and  the  whole  scheme  busted." 

For  he  had  learned  that  the  Nine  Cent-Girls  had 
not  a  relative  in  the  world.  Under  these  circumstances, 
it  was  clearly  his  duty  to  take  the  morning  train  for  the 
West.  And  yet,  the  next  evening,  he  presented  him- 
self, shamefaced  and  apologetic,  at  the  Bailey's  door. 

He  thought  that  he  wanted  to  make  some  sort  of 
explanation  to  Miss  Euphrosyne.  But  what  explanation 
could  he  make  ?  There  was  no  earthly  reason  for  his 
appearance  in  Tusculum.  He  talked  of  the  West  until 
eleven  o'clock,  and  then  he  took  a  hesitating  leave. 

The  next  day  he  made  a  weak  pretense  of  casually 


THE  NINE  CENT-GIRLS. 


ug 


passing  by  when  he   knew  that   Miss   Euphrosyne  was 
working  in  the  garden ;    but   he   found  it  no   easier  to 
explain  across  the  front  fence. 
The  explanation    never   would 
have  been  made  if  it  had  not 
been  for    Miss    Euphrosyne. 
A  curious    nervousness    had 
come  over  her,  too,  and  sud- 
denly she  spoke  out. 

"  Mr.   Cutter  —  excuse 
me  —  but  what  has  brought 
you  here?     I  mean  is  it  any- 
thing that  concerns  us  —  or  — 
or  —  Papa's  affairs!     I   thought   everything  was  settled 

—  I  had  hoped  —  " 

There  was  nothing  for  it  now  but  to  tell  the  whole 
story,  and  Dick  told  it. 

"  I  suppose  you  '11  think  we  're  a  pack  of  barba- 
rians," he  said,  when  he  had  come  to  the  end,  "and,  of 
course,  it's  all  impracticable  now." 

But  Miss  Euphrosyne  did  not  seem  to  be  offended 

—  only  thoughtful. 

"  Can  you  call  here  to-morrow  at  this  time,  Mr. 
Cutter?"  she  inquired. 


Miss  Euphrosyne  blushed  faintly  when  Dick  pre- 
sented himself  to  hear  judgement  pronounced. 

"I  suppose  you  will  think  it  strange,"  she  said, 
"but  if  your  plan  is  feasible,  I  should  wish  to  carry  it 


120  "  SHORT  SIXES." 

out.  Frankly,  I  do  want  to  see  the  girls  married.  Clelia 
and  Lydia  and  I  are  past  the  time  when  women  think 
about  such  things  —  but  Clytie  —  and  the  rest.  And, 
you  know,  I  can  remember  how  Papa  and  Mama  lived 
together,  and  sometimes  it  seems  cruelly  hard  that  those 
dear  girls  should  lose  all  that  happiness  —  I  'm  sure  it 's 
the  best  happiness  in  the  world.  And  it  can  never  be, 
here.  Now,  if  I  could  get  occupation  —  you  know  that 
I  'm  teaching  school,  I  suppose  —  and  if  the  rest  of  the 
girls  could  keep  up  their  work  for  the  New  York  people 
—  why  —  don't  you  know,  if  I  didn't  tell  —  if  I  put  it 
on  business  grounds,  you  know  —  I  think  they  would  feel 
that  it  was  best,  after  all,  to  leave  Tusculum  ..." 
Her  voice  was  choked  when  she  recommenced. 
"  It  seems  awful  for  me  to  talk  to  you  in  this  cold- 
blooded way  about  such  a  thing;  but  —  what  can  we  do, 
Mr.  Cutter?  You  don't  know  how  poor  we  are.  There  's 
nothing  for  my  little  Clytie  to  do  but  to  be  a  dressmaker 
—  and  you  know  what  that  means,  in 
Tusculum.  Oh,  do  you  think  I  could 
teach  school  out  in  Star  —  Star  — 
Starbuckle  ?  " 
jCjfeJ  Miss  Euphrosyne  was  crying. 

Dick's  census  of  possible  pu- 
pils in  the  neighborhood  of 
Starbuck  satisfied  Miss  Euphrosyne. 
It  troubled  Dick's  conscience  a  bit,  as  he  walked  back  to 
the  hotel.  "But  they'll  all  be  married  off  before  she 
finds  it  out,  so  I  guess  it  's  all  right,"  he  reflected. 


THE  NINE  CENT-GIRLS.  121 

The  next  week  Dick  went  to  New  York.  This  was 
in  pursuance  of  an  idea  which  he  had  confided  to  Win- 
field,  on  the  eve  of  his  forth-setting. 

"  Why,"  Winfield  had  said  to  him,  "you  are  clean 
left  out  of  this  deal,  are  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  said  Dick.  "  How  am  I  going 
to  marry  a  poor  girl  on  a  hundred  dollars  a  month?" 

"  I  might  set  you  up  for  yourself —  "  began  his 
employer. 

"  Hold  on  !  "  broke  in  Dick  Cutter,  with  emphasis. 
"  You  would  n't  talk  that  way  if  you  'd  ever  been  hungry 
yourself.  I  'most  starved  that  last  time  I  tried  for  my- 
self; and  I'd  starve  next  trip,  sure.  You  've  been  a  good 
friend  to  me,  Jack  Wintfield.  Don't  you  make  a  damn 
fool  of  yourself  and  spoil  it  all." 

"But,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "I  have  a  little 
racket  of  my  own.  There  's  a  widow  in  New  York  who 
smiled  on  yours  affectionately  once,  ere  she  wed  Mam- 
mon. I  'm  going  just  to  see  if  she  feels  inclined  to  divide 
the  late  lamented's  pile  with  a  blonde  husband." 

So,  the  business  at  Tusculum  being  determined,  and 
preparations  for  the  hegira  well  under  way,  Dick  went  to 
look  after  his  own  speculation. 

He  reached  New  York  on  Tuesday  morning,  and 
called  on  the  lady  of  his  hopes  that  afternoon.  She  was 
out.  He  wrote  to  her  in  the  evening,  asking  when  he 
might  see  her.  On  Thursday  her  wedding-cards  came 
to  his  hotel  by  special  messenger.  He  cursed  his  luck, 
and  went  cheerfully  about  attending  to  a  commission 
which   Miss  Euphrosyne,  after   much   urging,  had   given 


122  "SHORT  SIXES." 

him,  trembling  at  her  own  audacity.  The  size  of  it  had 
somewhat  staggered  him.  She  asked  him  to  take  an 
order  to  a  certain  large  dry-goods  house  for  nine  travel- 
ing ulsters,  (ladies',  medium  weight,  measurements  en- 
closed,) for  which  he  was  to  select  the  materials. 

"  Men  have  so  much  taste,"  said  Miss  Euphrosyne. 
"  Papa  always  knew  when  we  were  well  dressed." 

Dick  had  to  wait  while  another  customer  was  served. 
He  stared  at  her  in  humble  admiration.  It  was  a  British 
actress,  recently  imported. 


When  Mr.  Richard  Cutter  sat  on  the  platform  of 
Tusculum  station  and  saw  his  nine  charges  approach, 
ready  for  the  long  trip  to  the  Far  West,  it  struck  him  that 
the  pinky-dun  ulsters  with  the  six-inch-square  checks  of 
pale  red  and  blue  did  not  look,  on  these  nine  virgins,  as 
they  looked  on  the  British  actress.  It  struck  him,  more- 
over, that  the  nine  "fore-and-aft,"  or  "deer-stalker" 
caps  which  he  had  thrown  in  as  Friendship's  Offering 
only  served  to  more  accentuate  a  costume  already  ac- 
centuated. 

But  it  was  too  late  for  retreat.  The  Baileys  had 
burned  their  bridges  behind  them.  The  old  house  was 
sold.  Their  lot  was  cast  in  Montana.  He  had  his  mis- 
givings ;  but  he  handed  them  gallantly  into  the  train  — 
it  was  not  a  vestibule  express,  for  economy  forbade  —  and 
they  began  their  journey. 

He  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  they  were  noticed; 


THE  NINE  CENT-GIRLS.  123 

that  the  nine  ladies  in  the  ulsters  of  one  pattern  —  and 
of  the  pattern  of  his  choosing  —  were  attracting  more 
attention  than  any  ladies  not  thus  uniformed  would  have 
attracted;  but  he  was  not  seriously  disturbed  until  a 
loquacious  countryman  sat  down  beside  him. 

"Runnin'  a  lady  base-ball  nine,  be  ye? 
he  inquired.  "  I  seen  one,  wunst,  down 
to  Ne'  York.  They  can't  play  ball  not 
to  speak  of;  but  it  's  kinder  fun  lookin' 
at  'em.  Could  n't  ye  interdooce  me  to 
the  pitcher?  " 

Mr.    Cutter  made  a  dignified  reply, 
and  withdrew  to  the  smoking-car.      There  a 
fat  and  affable   stranger   tapped   him  on  the  back  and 
talked  in  his  ear  from  the  seat  behind. 

"It  don't  pay,  young  man,"  he  said.  "I  've  handled 
'em.  Female  minstrels  sounds  first  rate ;  but  they  don't 
give  the  show  that  catches  the  people.  You  've  gotter 
have  reel  talent  kinder  mixed  in  with  them  if  you  want 
to  draw." 

"  Them  ladies  in  your  comp'ny,  where  do  they 
show  ? "  inquired  the  Conductor,  as  he  examined  the  ten 
tickets  that  Dick  presented. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  irritated  pioneer. 

"  If  they  show  in  Cleveland,  I  'd  like  to  go,  first 
rate,"  the  Conductor  explained. 

"Those  ladies,"  Dick  thundered,  at  the  end  of  his 
patience,  "  are  not  actresses  !  " 

"  Hmf !   What  be  they  then  ? "  asked  the  Conductor. 


124  "  SHORT   SIXES." 

They  had  arrived  at  Buffalo.  They  had  gone  to 
the  Niagara  Hotel,  and  had  been  told  that  there  were  no 
rooms  for  them ;  and  to  the  Tifft  House,  where  there 
were  no  rooms ;  and  to  the  Genesee,  where  every  room 
was  occupied.  Finally  they  had  found  quarters  in  a 
very  queer  hotel,  where  the  clerk,  as  he  dealt  out  the 
keys,  said : 

"  One  for  Lily,  and  one  for  Daisy  and  one  for  Rosie 

—  here,  Boss,  sort  out  the   flower-bed   yourself,"   as  he 
handed  over  the  bunch. 

Dick  was  taking  a  drink  in  the  dingy  bar-room,  and 
trying  to  forget  the  queer  looks  that  had  been  cast  at  his 
innocent  caravan  all  the  day,  when  the  solitary  hall-boy 
brought  a  message  summoning  him  to  Miss  Euphrosyne's 
room.  He  went,  with  his  moral  tail  between  his  men- 
tal legs. 

"Mr.  Cutter,"  said  Miss  Euphrosyne,  firmly,  "we 
have  made  a  mistake." 

"It  looks  that  way,"  replied  Dick,  feebly;  "but 
may  be  it  's  only  the  —  the  ulsters." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Euphrosyne.  "The  ulsters  are  a 
part  of  it;  but  the  whole  thing  is  wrong,  Mr.  Cutter; 
and  I  see  it  all  now.  I  did  n't  realize  what  it  meant. 
But  my  eyes  have  been  opened.  Nine  young  unmarried 
women  can  not  go  West  with  a  young  man — if  you  had 
heard  what  people  were  saying  all  around  us  in  the  cars 

—  you  don't  know.   We  've  got  to  give  up  the  idea.   Oh, 
but  it  was  awful !  " 

Miss  Euphrosyne,  trembling,  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands.      Her  tears  trickled  out  through  her  thin  fingers. 


THE  NINE  CENT-GIRLS.  i25 

"And  the  old  house  is  sold!  What  shall  we  do? 
Where  shall  we  go  ? "  she  cried,  forgetting  Dick  utterly, 
lost  and  helpless. 

Dick  was  stalking  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  It  would  be  all  right,"  he  demanded,  "  if  there 
was  a  married  woman  to  lead  the  gang,  and  if  —  if — if 
we  caught  on  to  something  new  in  the  ulster  line?" 

"It  might  be  different,"  Miss  Euphrosyne  admitted, 
with  a  sob.  Speaking  came  hard  to  her.  She  was  tired : 
well  nigh  worn  out. 

"  THEN,"  said  Dick,  with  tremendous  emphasis, 
"what  's  the  matter  with  my  marrying  one  of  you  ? " 

"Why,  Mr.  Cutter!"  Miss  Euphrosyne  cried,  "I 
had  no  idea  that  you  —  you  —  ever  —  thought  of — is  it 
Clytie?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Cutter,  "it  is  n't  Clytie." 

"Is  it  —  is  it  — "  Miss  Euphrosyne's  eyes  lit  up 
with  hope  long  since  extinguished,  "  is  it  Aurora?" 

"No!  " 

Dick  Cutter  could  have  been  heard  three  rooms  off. 

"No  !"  he  said,  with  all  his  lungs.  "It  ain't  Clytie, 
nor  it  ain't  Aurora,  nor  it  ain't  Flora,  nor  Melpomene 
nor  Cybele  nor  Alveolar  Aureole  nor  none  of  'em.  It  's 
YOU — Y-O-U  !  I  want  to  marry  yon,  and  what's 
more,  I  'm  going  to  !  " 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  "  said  poor  Miss  Euphrosyne, 
and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  She  had  never  thought 
to  be  happy,  and  now  she  was  happy  for  one  moment. 
That  seemed  quite  enough  for  her  modest  soul.  And  yet 
more  was  to  come. 


126 


SHORT   SIXES." 


For  once  in  his  life,  Dick  Cutter  seized  the  right 
moment  to  do  the  right  thing.  One  hour  later,  Miss 
Euphrosyne  Bailey  was  Mrs.  Richard  Cutter.  She  did 
not  know  quite  how  it  happened.  Clytie  told  her  she 
had  been  bullied  into  it.      But  oh  !    such  sweet  bullying  ! 


"No,"  said  Mr.  Richard  Cutter  one  morning  in 
September  of  the  next  year,  to  Mr.  Jack  Winfield  and 
his  wife,  (Miss  Aurora  Bailey  that  was,)  "I  can't  stop  a 
minute.  We  're  too  busy  up  at  the  ranch.  The  Wife 
has  just  bought  out  Wilkinson  ;  and  I  've  got  to  round 
up  all  his  stock.  1  '11  see  you  next  month,  at  Clytie's 
wedding.  Queer,  she  should  have  gone  off  the  last, 
ain't  it  ?  Euphrosyne  and  I  are  going  down  to  Butte  City 
Monday,  to  buy  her  a  present.  Know  anybody  who 
wants  to  pay  six  per  cent,  for  a  thousand  ? " 


THE   NICE   PEOPLE. 


•fe 


^ 

<& 


"fe 


THE     NICE     PEOPLE. 

"  TThey  certainly  are  nice  people,"  I  assented  to  my 
*  wife's  observation,  using  the  colloquial  phrase  with 
a  consciousness  that  it  was  any  thing  but  "nice"  Eng- 
lish, "and  I  '11  bet  that  their  three  children  are  better 
brought  up  than  most  of — " 

"  Two  children,"  corrected  my  wife. 

"Three,  he  told  me." 

"  My  dear,  she  said  there  were  two."1 

"  He  said  three." 

"  You  've  simply  forgotten.  I  'm  sure  she  told  me 
they  had  only  two  —  a  boy  and  a  girl." 

"Well,  I  did  n't  enter  into  particulars." 

"  No,  dear,  and  you  could  n't  have  understood  him. 
Two  children." 

"All  right,"  I  said;  but  I  did  not  think  it  was  all 
right.  As  a  near-sighted  man  learns  by  enforced  obser- 
vation to  recognize  persons  at  a  distance  when  the  face 
is  not  visible  to  the  normal  eye,  so  the  man  with  a  bad 
memory  learns,  almost  unconsciously,  to  listen  carefully 
and  report  accurately.  My  memory  is  bad ;  but  I  had 
not  had  time  to  forget  that  Mr.  Brewster  Brede  had  told 


t$o  "SHORT   SIXES." 

me  that  afternoon  that  he  had  three  children,  at  present 
left  in  the  care  of  his  mother-in-law,  while  he  and  Mrs. 
Brede  took  their  Summer  vacation. 

"Two  children,"  repeated  my  wife;  "and  they  are 
staying  with  his  aunt  Jenny." 

"  He  told  me  with  his  mother-in-law,"  I  put  in. 
My  wife  looked  at  me  with  a  serious  expression.  Men 
may  not  remember  much  of  what  they  are  told  about 
children  ;  but  any  man  knows  the  difference  between  an 
aunt  and  a  mother-in-law. 

"  But  don't  you  think  they  're  nice  people?"  asked 
my  wife. 

"Oh,  certainly,"  I  replied.  "Only  they  seem  to 
be  a  little  mixed  up  about  their  children." 

"That  is  n't  a  nice  thing  to  say,"  returned  my  wife. 

I  could  not  deny  it. 


And  yet,  the  next  morning,  when  the  Bredes  came 
down  and  seated  themselves  opposite  us  at  table,  beam- 
ing and  smiling  in  their  natural,  pleasant,  well-bred 
fashion,  I  knew,  to  a  social  certainty,  that  they  were 
"nice"  people.  He  was  a  fine-looking  fellow  in  his 
neat  tennis-flannels,  slim,  graceful,  twenty-eight  or  thirty 
years  old,  with  a  Frenchy  pointed  beard.  She  wa& 
"nice"  in  all  her  pretty  clothes,  and  she  herself  was 
pretty  with  that  type  of  prettiness  which  outwears  most 
other  types  —  the  prettiness  that  lies  in  a  rounded  figure, 
a  dusky  skin,  plump,  rosy  cheeks,  white  teeth  and  black 


THE  NICE  PEOPLE. 


W 


eyes.  She  might  have  been  twenty-five;  you  guessed 
that  she  was  prettier  than  she  was  at  twenty,  and  that 
she  would  be  prettier  still  at  forty. 

And  nice  people  were  all  we  wanted  to 
make  us  happy  in  Mr.  Jacobus's  Summer 
boarding-house  on  top  of  Orange  Moun- 
tain. For  a  week  we  had  come  down 
to  breakfast  each  morning,  wonder- 
ing why  we  wasted  the  precious  days 
of  idleness  with  the  company  gath- 
ered around  the  Jacobus  board. 
What  joy  of  human  companion- 
ship was  to  be  had  out  of  Mrs. 
Tabb  and  Miss  Hoogencamp,  the 
two  middle-aged  gossips  from  Scran- 
ton,  Pa.  — out  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Big- 
gie, an  indurated  head-bookkeeper  and 
his  prim  and  censorious  wife  —  out  of  old  Major  Halkit,  a 
retired  business  man,  who,  having  once  sold  a  few  shares 
on  commission,  wrote  for  circulars  of  every  stock  com- 
pany that  was  started,  and  tried  to  induce  every  one  to 
invest  who  would  listen  to  him  ?  We  looked  around  at 
those  dull  faces,  the  truthful  indices  of  mean  and  barren 
minds,  and  decided  that  we  would  leave  that  morning. 
Then  we  ate  Mrs.  Jacobus's  biscuit,  light  as  Aurora's 
cloudlets,  drank  her  honest  coffee,  inhaled  the  perfume 
of  the  late  azaleas  with  which  she  decked  her  table,  and 
decided  to  postpone  our  departure  one  more  day.  And 
then  we  wandered  out  to  take  our  morning  glance  at 
what  we  called  "our  view;  "   and  it  seemed  to  us  as  if 


132  '•SHORT  SIXES." 

Tabb  and  Hoogencamp  and  Halkit  and  the  Biggleses 
could  not  drive  us  away  in  a  year. 

I  was  not  surprised  when,  after  breakfast,  my  wife 
invited  the  Bredes  to  walk  with  us  to  "our  view."  The 
Hoogencamp  -  Biggie  -  Tabb  -  Halkit  contingent  never 
stirred  off  Jacobus's  verandah;  but  we  both  felt  that  the 
Bredes  would  not  profane  that  sacred  scene.  We  strolled 
slowly  across  the  fields,  passed  through  the  little  belt  of 
woods,  and  as  I  heard  Mrs.  Brede's  little  cry  of  startled 
rapture,  I  motioned  to  Brede  to  look  up. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  he  cried,  "  heavenly  !  " 

We  looked  off  from  the  brow  of  the  mountain  over 
fifteen  miles  of  billowing  green,  to  where,  far  across  a 
far  stretch  of  pale  blue  lay  a  dim  purple  line  that  we 
knew  was  Staten  Island.  Towns  and  villages  lay  before 
us  and  under  us ;  there  were  ridges  and  hills,  uplands 
and  lowlands,  woods  and  plains,  all  massed  and  mingled 
in  that  great  silent  sea  of  sunlit  green.  For  silent  it 
was  to  us,  standing  in  the  silence  of  a  high  place  — 
silent  with  a  Sunday  stillness  that  made  us  listen,  with- 
out taking  thought,  for  the  sound  of  bells  coming  up 
from  the  spires  that  rose  above  the  tree-tops  —  the  tree- 
tops  that  lay  as  far  beneath  us  as  the  light  clouds  were 
above  us  that  dropped  great  shadows  upon  our  heads 
and  faint  specks  of  shade  upon  the  broad  sweep  of  land 
at  the  mountain's  foot. 

"And  so  that  is  your  view?"  asked  Mrs.  Brede, 
after  a  moment;  "you  are  very  generous  to  make  it 
ours,  too." 

Then  we  lay  down  on  the  grass,   and  Brede  began 


THE  NICE  PEOPLE.  133 

to  talk,  in  a  gentle  voice,  as  if  he  felt  the  influence  of 
the  place.  He  had  paddled  a  canoe,  in  his  earlier  days, 
he  said,  and  he  knew  every  river  and  creek  in  that  vast 
stretch  of  landscape.  He  found  his  landmarks,  and 
pointed  out  to  us  where  the  Passaic  and  the  Hackensack 
flowed,  invisible  to  us,  hidden  behind  great  ridges  that 
in  our  sight  were  but  combings  of  the  green  waves  upon 
which  we  looked  down.  And  yet,  on  the  further  side  of 
those  broad  ridges  and  rises  were  scores  of  villages  —  a 
little  world  of  country  life,  lying  unseen  under  our  eyes. 

"A  good  deal  like  looking  at  humanity,"  he  said: 
"  there  is  such  a  thing  as  getting  so  far  above  our  fellow- 
men  that  we  see  only  one  side  of  them." 

Ah,  how  much  better  was  this  sort  of  talk  than  the 
chatter  and  gossip  of  the  Tabb  and  the  Hoogencamp 
—  than  the  Major's  dissertations  upon  his  everlasting 
circulars  !      My  wife  and  I  exchanged  glances. 

"  Now,  when  I  went  up  the  Matterhorn,"  Mr.  Brede 
began. 

"Why,  dear,"  interrupted  his  wife;  "I  did  n't 
know  you  ever  went  up  the  Matterhorn." 

"  It  —  it  was  five  years  ago,"  said  Mr.  Brede,  hur- 
riedly. "I  —  I  didn't  tell  you  —  when  I  was  on  the  other 
side,  you  know  —  it  was  rather  dangerous  —  well,  as  I  was 
saying  —  it  looked  —  oh,  it  did  n't  look  at  all  like  this." 

A  cloud  floated  overhead,  throwing  its  great  shadow 
over  the  field  where  we  lay.  The  shadow  passed  over 
the  mountain's  brow  and  reappeared  far  below,  a  rapidly 
decreasing  blot,  flying  eastward  over  the  golden  green. 
My  wife  and  I  exchanged  glances  once  more. 


m 


SHOUT   SIXES." 


Somehow,  the  shadow  lingered  over  us  all.  As  we 
went  home,  the  Bredes  went  side  by  side  along  the  nar- 
row path,  and  my  wife  and  I  walked  together. 

"Should  you  think,"  she  asked  me,  "that  a  man 
would  climb  the  Matterhorn  the  very  first  year  he  was 
married?" 

"I  don't  know,  my  dear,"  I  answered,  evasively; 
"  this  is  n't  the  first  year  I  have  been  married,  not  by  a 

good  many,  and  I  would  n't  climb  it  —  for  a  farm." 
"You  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said. 
I  did. 

When  we  reached  the  boarding- 
house,  Mr.  Jacobus  took  me  aside. 

"  You  know,"  he  began  his  dis- 
course, "  my  wife,  she  used  to  live  in 
N*  York !  " 

I  did  n't  know;    but  I  said  "Yes." 

"She    says    the    numbers    on    the 

streets  runs  criss-cross  like.    Thirty-four 

's  on  one  side  o'  the  street  an'  thirty-five 

on  t'  other.     How  's  that?  " 

"That    is    the    invariable    rule,    I 
believe." 
"Then  —  I  say — these  here  new  folk  that  you  'n' 
your  wife  seem  so  mighty  taken  up  with  —  d'  ye  know 
any  thing  about  'em  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  about  the  character  of  your 
boarders,    Mr.   Jacobus,"   I   replied,    conscious   of  some 


THE  NICE  PEOPLE.  135 

irritability.  "If  1  choose  to  associate  with  any  of 
them  — " 

"Jess  so — jess  so  !  "  broke  in  Jacobus.  "  I  hain't 
nothin'  to  say  ag'inst  yer  sosherbil'ty.  But  do  ye  know 
them  ?  " 

"Why,  certainly  not,"   I  replied. 

"Well  —  that  was  all  I  wuz  askin'  ye.  Ye  see, 
when  he  come  here  to  take  the  rooms  —  you  was  n't  here 
then  —  he  told  my  wife  that  he  lived  at  number  thirty- 
four  in  his  street.  An'  yistiddy  she  told  her  that  they 
lived  at  number  thirty-five.  He  said  he  lived  in  an 
apartment-house.  Now  there  can't  be  no  apartment- 
house  on  two  sides  of  the  same  street,  kin  they?" 

"What  street  was  it?"   I  inquired,  wearily. 

"  Hunderd  'n'  twenty-first  street." 

"May  be,"  I  replied,  still  more  wearily.  "That  's 
Harlem.    Nobody  knows  what  people  will  do  in  Harlem." 

I  went  up  to  my  wife's  room. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  queer?  "  she  asked  me. 

"  I  think  I  '11  have  a  talk  with  that  young  man 
to-night,"  I  said,  "and  see  if  he  can  give  some  account 
of  himself." 

"But,  my  dear,"  my  wife  said,  gravely,  "  she  does 
n't  know  whether  they've  had  the  measles  or  not." 

"Why,  Great  Scott!"  I  exclaimed,  "they  must 
have  had  them  when  they  were  children." 

"  Please  don't  be  stupid,"  said  my  wife.  "  I  meant 
their  children." 


SHORT  sixes:' 


After  dinner  that  night — or  rather,  after  supper,  for 
we  had  dinner  in  the  middle  of  the  day  at  Jacobus's  — 
I  walked  down  the  long  verandah  to  ask  Brede,  who  was 
placidly  smoking  at  the  other  end,  to  accompany  me  on 
a  twilight  stroll.     Half  way  down  I  met  Major  Halkit. 
"  That  friend  of  yours,"  he  said,  indicating  the  un- 
conscious figure  at  the  further 
end  of  the  house,  "seems  to 
be  a  queer  sort  of  a  Dick. 
He  told  me  that  he  was  out 
of  business,  and  just  looking 
round   for  a  chance  to  invest 
his  capital.    And  I've  been 
telling  him  what  an  ever- 
lasting big  show  he  had 
to  take  stock  in  the  Capi- 
toline  Trust  Company  — 
starts  next   month  —  four 
million  capital  —  I  told  you 
all  about  it.      'Oh,   well,'  he 
says,    '  let  's    wait    and    think 
about  it.'      'Wait!'  says  I,  <  the 
Capitoline  Trust  Company  won't  wait  for  yoti,  my  boy. 
This  is  letting  you  in  on  the  ground  floor,'  says  I  'and 
it 's  now  or  never.'       <  Oh,  let  it  wait,'  says  he.      I  don't 
know  what  's  m-to  the  man." 

"I  don't  know  how  well  he  knows  his  own  business, 
Major,"  I  said  as  I  started  again  for  Brede's  end  of  the 
verandah.  But  I  was  troubled  none  the  less.  The 
Major  could  not  have  influenced  the  sale  of  one  share  of 


THE  NICE  PEOPLE. 


'37 


stock  in  the  Capitoline  Company.  But  that  stock  was  a 
great  investment ;  a  rare  chance  for  a  purchaser  with  a 
few  thousand  dollars.  Perhaps  it  was  no  more  remark- 
able that  Brede  should  not  invest  than  that  I  should  not 
—  and  yet,  it  seemed  to  add  one  circumstance  more  to 
the  other  suspicious  circumstances. 


When  I  went  upstairs  that  evening,    I   found  my 
wife  putting  her  hair  to  bed  —  I  don't  know  how  I  can 
better  describe  an  operation  familiar 
to    every    married    man. 
I  waited  until  the  last 
tress    was    coiled    up, 
and  then  I  spoke. 

"I  've  talked  with 
Brede,"  I  said,  "and 
I  did  n't  have  to  cate- 
chize him.  He  seemed 
to  feel  that  some  sort 
of  explanation  was 
looked  for,  and  he  was 
very  out-spoken.  You 
were  right  about  the  children  — 

that  is,  I  must  have  misunderstood  him.  There  are  only 
two.  But  the  Matterhorn  episode  was  simple  enough. 
He  did  n't  realize  how  dangerous  it  was  until  he  had  got 
so  far  into  it  that  he  could  n't  back  out ;  and  he  did  n't 
tell  her,  because  he  'd  left  her  here,  you  see,  and  under 
the  circumstances — " 


ijg  "SHORT   SIXES." 

"  Left  her  here  !  "  cried  my  wife.  "I  've  been  sit- 
ting with  her  the  whole  afternoon,  sewing,  and  she  told 
me  that  he  left  her  at  Geneva,  and  came  back  and  took 
her  to  Basle,  and  the  baby  was  born  there  —  now  I  'm 
sure,  dear,  because  I  asked  her." 

"  Perhaps  I  was  mistaken  when  I  thought  he  said 
she  was  on  this  side  of  the  water,"  I  suggested,  with 
bitter,  biting  irony. 

"You  poor  dear,  did  I  abuse  you?"  said  my  wife. 
"  But,  do  you  know,  Mrs.  Tabb  said  that  she  did  n't 
know  how  many  lumps  of  sugar  he  took  in  his  coffee. 
Now  that  seems  queer,  does  n't  it." 

It  did.  It  was  a  small  thing.  But  it  looked  queer. 
Very  queer. 


The  next  morning,  it  was  clear  that  war  was  de- 
clared against  the  Bredes.  They  came  down  to  break- 
fast somewhat  late,  and,  as  soon  as  they  arrived,  the 
Biggleses  swooped  up  the  last  fragments  that  remained 
on  their  plates,  and  made  a  stately  march  out  of  the 
dining-room.  Then  Miss  Hoogencamp  arose  and  de- 
parted, leaving  a  whole  fish-ball  on  her  plate.  Even  as 
Atalanta  might  have  dropped  an  apple  behind  her  to 
tempt  her  pursuer  to  check  his  speed,  so  Miss  Hoogen- 
camp left  that  fish-ball  behind  her,  and  between  her 
maiden  self  and  Contamination. 

We  had  finished  our  breakfast,  my  wife  and  I, 
before    the    Bredes  appeared.      We   talked  it  over,   and 


THE  NICE  PEOPLE. 


139 


agreed  that  we  were  glad  that  we  had  not  been  obliged 
to  take  sides  upon  such  insufficient  testimony. 

After  breakfast,  it  was  the  custom 
of  the  male   half  of  the   Jacobus        <G& 
household  to  go  around  the  corner       -% 
of  the  building  and  smoke  their 
pipes  and  cigars  where  they 
would  not  annoy  the  ladies. 
We    sat    under    a    trellis 
covered  with   a   grape-vine 

that  had  borne  no  grapes  in  the  memory  of  man.  This 
vine,  however,  bore  leaves,  and  these,  on  that  pleasant 
Summer  morning,  shielded  from  us  two  persons  who 
were  in  earnest  conversation  in  the  straggling,  half- 
dead  flower-garden  at  the  side  of  the  house. 

"I  don't  want,"  we  heard  Mr.  Jacobus  say,  "to 
enter  in  no  man's  pry -vacy;  but  I  do  want  to  know 
who   it   may  be,    like,    that   I   hev   in    my  house.      Now 

what  I  ask  of  you,   and  I 
don't  want  you  to  take 
it    as    in    no   ways   per- 
sonal, is  —  hev  you  your 
merridge  -  license  with 
you?  " 

"  No,"    we    heard 

the  voice  of  Mr.  Brede 

reply.       "  Have     you 

yours?" 

I   think  it  was  a  chance  shot;    but  it  told  all   the 

same.      The  Major  (he  was  a  widower),  and  Mr.  Biggie 


^W^ 


140  • '  SHOR  T  SIXES. ' ' 

and  I  looked  at  each  other;  and  Mr.  Jacobus,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  grape-trellis,  looked  at  —  I  don't  know 
what  —  and  was  as  silent  as  we  were. 

Where  is  your  marriage-license,  married  reader? 
Do  you  know?  Four  men,  not  including  Mr.  Brede, 
stood  or  sate  on  one  side  or  the  other  of  that  grape- 
trellis,  and  not  one  of  them  knew  where  his  marriage- 
license  was.  Each  of  us  had  had  one  —  the  Major  had 
had  three.  But  where  were  they?  Where  is  yours? 
Tucked  in  your  best-man's  pocket;  deposited  in  his  desk 
—  or  washed  to  a  pulp  in  his  white  waistcoat  (if  white 
waistcoats  be  the  fashion  of  the  hour),  washed  out  of 
existence  —  can  you  tell  where  it  is?  Can  you  —  unless 
you  are  one  of  those  people  who  frame  that  interesting 
document  and  hang  it  upon  their  drawing-room  walls? 

Mr.  Brede's  voice  arose,  after  an  awful  stillness 
of  what  seemed  like  five  minutes,  and  was,  probably, 
thirty  seconds : 

"  Mr.  Jacobus,  will  you  make  out  your  bill  at  once, 
and  let  me  pay  it?  I  shall  leave  by  the  six  o'clock  train. 
And  will  you  also  send  the  wagon  for  my  trunks?" 

"I  hain't  said  I  wanted  to  hev  ye  leave — "  began 
Mr.  Jacobus;  but  Brede  cut  him  short. 

"Bring  me  your  bill." 

"But,"  remonstrated  Jacobus,  "  ef  ye  ain't — " 

"  Bring  me  your  bill !  "  said  Mr.  Brede. 


My  wife  and  I  went  out  for  our    morning's  walk. 
But  it  seemed  to  us,  when  we  looked  at  "our  view,"  as 


THE  NICE  PEOPLE.  141 

if  we  could  only  see  those  invisible  villages  of  which 
Brede  had  told  us  —  that  other  side  of  the  ridges  and 
rises  of  which  we  catch  no  glimpse  from  lofty  hills  or 
from  the  heights  of  human  self-esteem.  We  meant  to 
stay  out  until  the  Bredes  had  taken  their  departure ;  but 
we  returned  just  in  time  to  see  Pete,  the  Jacobus  darkey, 
the  blacker  of  boots,  the  brusher  of  coats,  the  general 
handy-man  of  the  house,  loading  the  Brede  trunks  on 
the  Jacobus  wagon. 

And,  as  we  stepped  upon  the  verandah,  down  came 
Mrs.  Brede,  leaning  on  Mr.  Brede's  arm,  as  though  she 
were  ill ;  and  it  was  clear  that  she  had  been  crying. 
There  were  heavy  rings  about  her  pretty  black  eyes. 

My  wife  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"Look  at  that  dress,  dear,"  she  whispered;  "she 
never  thought  any  thing  like  this  was  going  to  happen 
when  she  put  that  on." 

It  was  a  pretty,  delicate,  dainty  dress,  a  graceful, 
narrow-striped  affair.  Her  hat  was  trimmed  with  a 
narrow-striped  silk  of  the  same  colors  —  maroon  and 
white  —  and  in  her  hand  she  held  a  parasol  that  matched 
her  dress. 

"  She  's  had  a  new  dress  on  twice  a  day,"  said  my 
wife;  "but  that's  the  prettiest  yet.  Oh,  somehow  — 
I  'm  awfully  sorry  they  're  going !  " 

But  going  they  were.  They  moved  toward  the 
steps.  Mrs.  Brede  looked  toward  my  wife,  and  my  wife 
moved  toward  Mrs.  Brede.  But  the  ostracised  woman, 
as  though  she  felt  the  deep  humiliation  of  her  position, 
turned  sharply  away,  and  opened  her  parasol  to  shield 


142 


SHORT    SIXES. 


her  eyes  from  the  sun.  A  shower  of  rice  —  a  half-pound 
shower  of  rice  —  fell  down  over  her  pretty  hat  and  her 
pretty  dress,  and  fell  in  a  spattering  circle  on  the  floor, 
outlining  her  skirts  —  and  there  it  lay  in  a  broad,  uneven 
band,  bright  in  the  morning  sun. 

Mrs.  Brede  was   in   my  wife's  arms,  sobbing  as   if 
her  young  heart  would  break. 

"Oh,  you  poor,  dear,  silly  children  !"  my  wife  cried, 
as   Mrs.    Brede  sobbed  on  her  shoulder,    "  why  did  n't 
you  tell  us  ?  " 

"W-W-W-We  did  n't  want  to  be  t-t-taken 

for  a  b-b-b-b-bridal  couple,"   sobbed   Mrs. 

Brede;     "and  we    d-d-did  n't   dream  what 

awful  lies  we  'd  have  to  tell,  and  all  the  aw- 

aw-ful  mixed-up-ness  of  it.      Oh,    dear, 

dear,   dear ! " 


"Pete!"  commanded  Mr.  Jacobus, 

"put   back   them    trunks.      These    folks 

stays  here  's  long  's  they  wants  ter.     Mr. 

Brede  — "   he  held  out  a  large,  hard  hand 

—  "I  'd  orter  've  known  better,"  he  said.      And  my  last 

doubt  of  Mr.    Brede  vanished  as  he  shook  that   grimy 

hand   in   manly  fashion. 

The  two  women  were  walking  off  toward  "our  view," 
each  with  an  arm  about  the  other's  waist  —  touched  by  a 
sudden  sisterhood  of  sympathy. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Brede,  addressing  Jacobus, 
Biggie,  the  Major  and  me,    "  there  is  a  hostelry  down 


THE  NICE  PEOPLE. 


*43 


the  street  where  they  sell  honest  New  Jersey  beer.      I 
recognize  the  obligations  of  the  situation." 

We  five  men  filed  down  the  street.  The  two 
women  went  toward  the  pleasant  slope  where  the  sun- 
light gilded  the  forehead  of  the  great  hill.  On  Mr. 
Jacobus's  verandah  lay  a  spattered  circle  of  shining 
grains  of  rice.  Two  of  Mr.  Jacobus's  pigeons  flew  down 
and  picked  up  the  shining  grains,  making  grateful  noises 
far  down  in  their  throats. 


V 


MR.    COPERNICUS  AND 
THE   PROLETARIAT. 


1* 


b 


^ 


fc 


MR.   COPERNICUS   AND    THE 
PROLETARIAT. 

THE  OLD  publishing  house  of  T.  Copernicus  &  Son 
was  just  recovering  from  the  rush  of  holiday  busi- 
ness—  a  rush  of  perhaps  a  dozen  purchasers.  Christmas 
shoppers  rarely  sought  out  the  dingy  building  just  around 
the  corner  from  Astor  Place,  and  T.  C.  &  Son  had  done 
no  great  business  since  young  T.  C,  the  "Son,"  died, 
fifteen  years  before.  The  house  lived  on  two  or  three 
valuable  copyrights ;  and  old  Mr.  Copernicus  kept  it 
alive  just  for  occupation's  sake,  now  that  Tom  was  dead. 
But  he  liked  to  maintain  the  assumption  that  his  queer 
old  business,  with  its  publication  of  half-a-dozen  scientific 
or  theological  works  per  annum,  was  the  same  flourishing 
concern  that  it  had  been  in  his  prime.  That  it  did  not 
flourish  was  nothing  to  him.  He  was  rich,  thanks  to 
himself;  his  wife  was  rich,  thanks  to  her  aunt;  his 
daughter  was  rich,  thanks  to  her  grandmother.  So  he 
played  at  business,  and  every  Christmas-time  he  bought 
a  lot  of  fancy  stationery  and  gift-books  that  nobody 
called  for,  and  hired  a  couple  of  extra  porters  for  whom 


148 


SHORT   SIXES." 


the  head-porter  did  his  best  to  find  some  work.  Then, 
the  week  after  New  Year's,  he  would  discharge  his  holi- 
day hands,  and  give  each  of  them  a  dollar  or  two  apiece 
out  of  his  own  pocket. 

"Barney,"  he  said  to  the  old  porter,  "you  don't 
need  those  two  extra  men  any  longer?" 

"'Deed  an' we  do  not,  sorr  !  "  said  Barney;  "  th' 
wan  o'  thim  wint  off  av  himself  the  mornin',  an'  t'  other 
do  be  readin'  books  the  whole  day  long." 

"Send  him  to  me,"  Mr.  Copernicus  ordered,  and 
Barney  yelled  unceremoniously,  "Mike!" 

The  figure  of  a  large  and  somewhat  stout  youth, 
who  might  have  been    eighteen  or  twenty -eight  years 
old,  appeared,  rising  from  the  sub-cellar.      His  hair  was 
black,  his  face  was  clean-shaven,  and  although 
he  held  in   his  hand   the   evidence  of  his 
guilt,  a  book  kept  partly  open  with  his 
forefinger,    he    had    an    expression   of 
imperturbable  calm,   and  placid,  ox- 
like  fixity  of  purpose.     He  wore  a 
long,  seedy,   black  frock-coat,   but- 
toned up  to  the  neck-band  of  his 
collarless  shirt. 

"How's  this?"   inquired  Mr. 

Copernicus.     "  I  'm  told  that  you 

spend  your  time  reading  my  books." 

The  young  man  slowly  opened  his  mouth 

and  answered  in  a  deliberate  drawl,  agreeably  diversified 

by  a  peculiar  stutter. 

"I  have  n't  been  reading  your  b-b-books,  sir;    I  've 


MR.  COPERNICUS  AND  THE  PROLETARIAT.      i49 

been  reading  my  own.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to  hand  up 
boxes  of  fuf-fuf-fancy  stationery,  and  —  " 

"  I  see,"  interposed  Mr.  Copernicus,  hurriedly, 
"there  has  n't  been  any  very  great  call  for  fancy  sta- 
tionery this  year." 

"  And  when  there  was  n't  any  c-c-call  for  it,  I 
read.  I  ain't  going  to  be  a  pip-pip-porter  all  my  life. 
Would  you  ?  " 

"Why,  of  course,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Copernicus, 
"  if  you  are  reading  to  improve  your  mind,  in  your 
leisure  time  —  let  's  see  your  book." 

The  young  man  handed  him  a  tattered  duodecimo. 

"Why,  it  's  Virgil!"  exclaimed  his  employer. 
"You  can't  read  this." 

"Some  of  it  I  kik-kik-can,"  returned  the  employee, 
"and  some  of  it  I  kik-kik-can't." 

Mr.  Copernicus  sought  out  "  Arma  virumque  "  and 
"  Tityre,  tu  patulae,"  and  one  or  two  other  passages  he 
was  sure  of,  and  the  studious  young  porter  read  them 
in  the  artless  accent  which  the  English  attribute  to  the 
ancient  Romans,  and  translated  them  with  sufficient 
accuracy. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  to  read  Latin?  " 

"  I  p-p-picked  it  up  in  odd  hours." 

"  What  else  have  you  studied  ?  " 

"A  little  Gig-Gig-Greek." 

"  Any  thing  else?  " 

"  Some  algebra  and  some  Fif-Fif-French." 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  " 

"From    Baltimore,"    drawled   the   prodigy,    utterly 


'S<> 


SHORT    SIXES." 


unmoved  by  his  employer's  manifest  astonishment.  "  I 
was  janitor  of  a  school  there,  and  the  principal  lent  me 
his  bib-bib-books." 

"  What  is  your  name?  " 

"  M-M-Michael  Ouinlan." 

"And  what  was  your  father's  business?  " 

"  He  was  a  bib-bib-bricklayer,"  the  young  man 
replied  calmly,  adding,  reflectively,  "when  he  wasn't 
did-did-drunk. " 

"  Bless  my  old  soul !  "  said  Mr.  Copernicus  to  him- 
self, "this  is  most  extraordinary!  I  '11  see  you  again, 
young  man.  Barney !  "  he  called  to  the  head  porter, 
"this  young  man  will  remain  with  us  for  the  present." 

A  couple  of  days  later,  Mr.  Copernicus  sent  for 
Michael  Ouinlan,  and  invited  him  to  call  at  the  Coperni- 
can  residence  on  Washington  Square,  that  evening. 

"  I  want  to  have  Professor  Barcalow  talk  with  you," 
he  explained. 

At  the  hour  appointed,  Mr.  M.  Ouinlan  presented 
himself  at  the  basement  door  of  the  old  house,  and 
was  promptly  translated  to  the  library,  where  Professor 
Barcalow,  once  President  of  Clear  Creek  University, 
Indiana,  rubbed  his  bald  head  and  examined  the  young 
man  at  length. 

Ouinlan  underwent  an  hour's  ordeal  without  the 
shadow  of  discomposure. 

He  drawled  and  stuttered  with  a  placid  face,  whether 
his  answers  were  right  or  wrong.  At  the  end  of  the  hour, 
the  Professor  gave  his  verdict. 

"Our  young  friend,"  he  said,  "has  certainly  done 


MR.  COPERNICUS  AND  THE  PROLETARIAT.      T51 

wonders  for  himself  in   the  way  of  self-tuition.      He  is 
almost   able  —  mind,    I    say   almost  —  to    pass   a   good 
Freshman  examination.      Of  course, 
he  is  not  thorough.     There  is  just 
the  same  difference,  Mr.  Coper- 
nicus,  between   the   tuition  you 
do  for  yourself  and  the  tuition 
that   you    receive   from   a  com- 
petent  teacher   as   there  is  be- 
tween  the  carpentering  you  do 
for  yourself  and  the  carpenter- 
ing   a    regular    carpenter    does 
for  you.    I  can  see  the  marks  of 
self-tuition   all   over  this  young 
man's    conversation.       He    has 
never  met  a  competent  instruc- 
tor in  his  life.    But  he  has  done 
very  well  for  himself — wonderfully 

well.  He  in  entitled  to  great  credit.  Try  to  remember, 
Ouinlan,  what  I  told  you  about  the  use  of  the  ablative 
absolute." 

Ouinlan  said  he  would,  and  made  his  exit  by  the 
basement  door. 

"If  he  works  hard,"  remarked  the  Professor,  "he 
will  be  able  to  enter  Clear  Creek  by  June,  and  work  his 
way  through." 

"And  as  it  happens,"  said  Mr.  Copernicus,  "I  'm 
going  to  lose  my  night-watchman  next  week,  and  I 
think  I  '11  put  Quinlan  in.  And  then  I  've  been  think- 
ing—  there  are  all  poor  Tom's  books  that  he  had  when 


v 


SHORT    SIXES." 


he  went  to  Columbia.      I  '11  let  the  boy  come  here  and 
borrow   them,   and  I  can  keep  an  eye  on  him  and  see 
how  he  's  getting  along." 

"H'm!    yes,    of   course,"    the 
Professor    assented     hesitat- 
ingly, dubious  of  Mr.  Coper- 
N         nicus's  classics. 


Well,  Barney,"  Mr.  Coper- 
nicus hailed  his  head-por- 
ter a  month  or  two  later, 
"how  does  our  new 
night-watchman  do?" 
"Faith,  I  've  seen 
worse  than  him,"  said 
Barney.  "He's  a  will- 
ing lad." 
Barney's  heart  had  been  won.  He  came  down  to 
the  store  each  morning  and  found  that  Quinlan  had 
saved  him  the  trouble  of  taking  off  the  long  sheets  of 
cotton  cloth  that  protected  the  books  on  the  counters 
from  the  dust. 


Every  week  thereafter,  Ouinlan  presented  himself 
at  the  basement  door,  shabby,  but  no  longer  collarless, 
was  admitted  to  the  library,  by  way  of  the  back-stairs, 
and  received  from  Mrs.  Copernicus  the  books  that  Mr. 
Copernicus  had  set  aside   for   him.      But  one  day   Mr. 


MR.  COPERNICUS  AND  THE  PROLETARIAT.      rjj 

Copernicus  forgot  the  books,  and  Mrs.  Copernicus  asked 
the  young  man  into  the  parlor  to  explain  to  him  how  it 
had  happened.  When  she  had  explained,  being  a  kindly 
soul,  she  made  a  little  further  conversation,  and  asked 
Quinlan  some  questions  about  his  studies.  Greek  was 
Greek  indeed  to  her;  but  when  he  spoke  of  French,  she 
felt  as  though  she  had  a  sort  of  second-hand  acquaint- 
ance with  the  language. 

"  Floretta,"  she  said  to  her  daughter,  "  talk  to  Mr. 
Ouinlan  in  French,  and  find  out  how  much  he  knows." 

Floretta  blushed.  She  was  a  wren-like  little  thing, 
with  soft  brown  hair,  rather  pretty,  and  yet  the  sort 
of  girl  whom  men  never  notice.  To  address  this  male 
stranger  was  an  agony  to  her.  But  she  knew  that  her 
French  had  been  bought  at  a  fashionable  boarding- 
school,  and  bought  for  show,  and  her  mother  had  a 
right  to  demand  its  exhibition.  She  asked  M.  Quinlan 
how  he  portayed  himself,  and  M.  Ouinlan,  with  no  more 
expression  on  his  face  than  a  Chinese  idol,  but  with  a 
fluency  checked  only  by  his  drawl  and  his  stutter,  poured 
forth  what  sounded  to  Mrs.  Copernicus  like  a  small 
oration. 

"What  did  he  say  then,  Floretta?"  she  demanded. 

"  He  said  how  grateful  he  was  to  Papa  for  giving 
him  such  a  chance,  and  how  he  wants  to  be  a  teacher 
when  he  knows  enough.  And,  oh,  Mama,  he  speaks 
ever  so  much  better  than  /  do." 

"Where  did  you  learn  to  speak  so  well?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Copernicus,   incredulously. 

"  I  lived  for  some  years  in  a  French  house,  Ma'am. 


'54 


SHORT   SIXES." 


At  least,    the  lady  of  the  house  was  French,   and  she 
never  spoke  any  thing  else." 

Beneficence  is  quick  to  develop  into  an  insidious 
habit.  When  Mr.  Copernicus  heard  this  new  thing  of  his 
prodigy  and  protege,  a  new  idea  came  to  him. 

"  Old  Haverhill,  down  at  the  office,  speaks  French 
like  a  native.  I  '1  let  him  feel  Quinlan's  teeth,  and  if  he 
is  as  good  as  you  say  he  is,  he  'd  better  come  once  a 
week  and  talk  French  to  Floretta  for  an  hour.  You  can 
sit  in  the  room.    She  ought  to  keep  up  her  French." 

And  every  Wednesday,  from  four  to  five, 
Mr.  Ouinlan  and  Miss  Floretta  con- 
versed,     Floretta    blushing 
ever,  Ouinlan  retaining  his 
idol-like  stolidity.     Some- 
times the  dull  monotony 
of  his  drawl,  broken  only 
by  his  regular  and  rhyth- 
mic   stutter,    lulled   Mrs. 
Copernicus    into   a   brief 
nap  over  her  book  or  her 
fancy  work. 


Spring  had  come.  The  trees  had  brought  out  their 
pale  and  gauzy  green  veils,  the  beds  of  tulips  and  Alpine 
daisies  made  glad  spots  in  the  parks,  and  Quinlan,  at  his 
employer's  suggestion,  had  purchased  a  ready  made 
Spring  suit,  in  which  he  looked  so  presentable  that  Mr. 
Copernicus  was  half  minded  to  ask  him  to  dinner. 


MR.  COPERNICUS  AND  THE  PROLETARIAT.       155 

For  Mrs.  Copernicus  had  said  something  to  Mr. 
Copernicus  that  had  set  him  to  thinking  of  many  things. 
The  Chinese  idol  had  abated  no  jot  of  his  stolidity,  and 
yet  —  perhaps  —  he  had  found  a  worshiper.  Floretta 
began  blushing  of  Wednesdays,  a  full  hour  before  the 
lesson. 

What  was  to  come  of  it  ?  On  the  face  of  it,  it  seemed 
impossible.  A  Ouinlan  and  a  Copernicus !  And  yet  — 
great-grandfather  Copernicus,  who  founded  the  family  in 
America  —  was  not  he  a  carpenter?  And  did  not  his 
descendants  point  with  pride  to  his  self-made  solidity  ? 
And  here  was  native  worth ;  high  ambition ;  achieve- 
ment that  promised  more.  And  Floretta  was  twenty- 
four,  and  had  never  had  an  offer.  "  What,"  inquired 
Mr.  Copernicus  of  himself,  "is  my  duty  toward  the 
proletariat  ?" 

One  thing  was  certain.  If  the  question  was  not  set- 
tled in  the  negative  at  once,  Ouinlan  must  be  educated. 
So,  instead  of  inviting  Ouinlan  to  dinner,  he  invited  Mr. 
Joseph  Mitts,  the  traveling  agent  of  the  Hopkinsonian 
Higher  Education  Association,  who,  by  a  rare 
chance,  was  in  town. 

Cynical  folk  said  that  the  Hopkinsonian 
Association  existed  only  to  sell  certain  text- 
books and  curious  forms  of  stationery  which 
were  necessary  to  the  Hopkinsonian  system. 
But  no  such  idea  had  ever  entered  the  head 
of  Mr.  Mitts.      He  roamed  about  the  land, 
introducing  the  System  wherever  he  could,  and 
a  brisk  business  agent  followed  him  and  sold 


rj6  "SHORT   SIXES." 

the  Hopkinsonian  Blackboards  and  the  Hopkinsonian 
Ink  and  the  Hopkinsonian  Teachers'  Self-Examination 
Blanks,    on   commission. 

As  they  smoked  their  cigars  in  the  Library  after 
dinner,  Mr.  Copernicus  told  Mr.  Mitts  about  Ouinlan. 
Mr.  Mitts  was  interested.  He  knew  a  Professor  at  a 
fresh-water  college  who  would  put  Quinlan  through  his 
studies  during  the  vacation. 

"Well,  that 's  settled,"  Mr.  Copernicus  said,  and  he 
beamed  with  satisfaction.  "I  knew  you  'd  help  me  out, 
Mitts.  Only  it 's  so  hard  ever  to  get  a  sight  of  you  — 
you  are  always  traveling  about." 

"We  don't  often  meet,"  Mr.  Mitts  assented.  "And 
it  is  curious  that  this  visit  should  have  been  the  means 
of  giving  me  sight  of  a  man  in  whom  I  want  to  interest 
you.  His  name  is  Chester  —  Dudley  Winthrop  Chester. 
He  is  the  son  of  my  old  clergyman,  and  he  has  given 
his  parents  a  deal  of  trouble.  I  don't  know  that  Dud 
ever  was  vicious  or  dissolute.  But  he  was  the  most  con- 
firmed idler  and  spendthrift  I  ever  knew.  He  could  n't 
even  get  through  college,  and  he  never  would  do  a 
stroke  of  work.  He  made  his  father  pay  his  debts  half 
a  dozen  times,  and  when  that  was  stopped,  he  drifted 
away,  and  his  family  quite  lost  sight  of  him.  I  met  him 
in  Baltimore  last  year,  and  lent  him  money  to  come  to 
New  York.  He  said  he  was  going  to  work.  And  just 
as  I  came  in  your  front  door,  I  saw  him  going  out  of 
your  basement  door  with  a  package  under  his  arm,  so 
I  infer  he  is  employed  by  one  of  your  trades-people  — 
your  grocer,  perhaps." 


MR.  COPERNICUS  AND  THE  PROLETARIAT.      157 

"  Just  as  you  came  in?  Why  —  a  large,  dark-haired 
young  man?  " 

"Yes;    clean-shaven." 

"  Why,  that  was  Ouinlan  !  " 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Mitts,  with  the  smile  of  superior 
knowledge.  "It  was  Chester,  and  if  I  'm  not  mistaken, 
he  was  kissing  the  cook." 

"Then  you  are  mistaken!"  cried  Mr.  Copernicus; 
"my  cook  is  as  black  as  the  ace  of  spades.  There  is  n't 
a  white  servant  in  the  house." 

"Why,  that  's  so!"  Mr.  Mitts  was  staggered  for 
the  moment.  "But  —  wait  a  minute  —  does  your  man 
Quinlan  speak  with  a  drawl,  and  just  one  stutter  to  the 
sentence?" 

"I  think  he  does,"  replied  his  host;    "but  — " 

"  Dudley  Chester  !  "  said  Mr.  Mitts. 

"  But,  my  dear  Mitts,  where  did  he  get  the  Latin 
and  Greek?  " 

"  He  had  to  learn  something  at  Yale." 

"And  the  French?" 

"  His  mother  was  a  French  Canadian.  That  's 
where  he  gets  his  French  —  and  his  laziness." 

Mr.  Copernicus  made  one  last  struggle. 

"But  he  has  been  most  industrious  and  faithful  in 
my  employ." 

"What  is  he?" 

"My  —  my  night-watchman." 

"  Mr.  Copernicus,"  inquired  Mr.  Mitts,  "have  you  a 
watchman's  clock  in  your  building?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Copernicus,   indignantly.     "  I 


rjS  "SHORT   SIXES." 

have  none  of  those  degrading  new-fangled  machines.     I 
prefer  to  trust  my  employees." 

"  Then   Dudley  Chester  is  asleep  in  your  store  at 
this  minute." 


A  soft,  moist  breeze,  with  something  of  the  sea  in 
it,  blew  gently  in  at  an  open  window  of  the  second 
floor  of  the  business  establishment  of  T.  Copernicus  & 
Son.  Near  the  window  a  gas-jet  flickered.  Under  the 
gas-jet,  on,  or  rather  in,  a  bed  ingeniously  constructed 
of  the  heaped-up  covering-cloths  from  the  long  counters, 
lay  Mr.  Michael  Quinlan,  half-supported  on  his  left 
elbow.  In  his  other  hand  he  held,  half-open,  a  yellow- 
covered  French  novel.  Between  his  lips  was  a  cigarette. 
A  faint  shade  of  something  like  amusement  lent  expres- 
sion to  his  placid  features  as  he  listened  to  Mr.  Coper- 
nicus puffing  his  way  up  the  stairs,  followed  by  Mr. 
Mitts  and  Barney.  The  hands  on  the  clock  pointed  to 
eleven.  Mr.  Quinlan's  attire  was  appropriate  to  the 
hour.  He  wore  only  a  frayed  cotton  night-shirt.  His 
other  clothes  were  carelessly  disposed  about  his  couch. 

He  waited  calmly  until  his  visitors  had  appeared 
before  him,  and  then  he  greeted  them  with  a  gracious 
wave  of  his  hand  —  an  easy  gesture  that  seemed  to 
dismiss  Quinlan  and  announce  Chester. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  drawled,  "you  '11  excuse  my  not 
gig-gig-getting  up  to  welcome  you.  Ah,  Joseph  !  I  saw 
you  this  evening,  and  I  supposed  the  j-j-jig  was  up." 

Mr.  Copernicus  was  purple  and  speechless  for  the 


MR.  COPERNICUS  AND  THE  PROLETARIAT.      rjg 

better  part  of  a  minute.  Then  he  demanded,  in  a  husky 
whisper : 

"Who  are  you?" 

Mr.  Chester,  with  nothing  of  the  Ouinlan  left  about 
him,  waved  his  hand  once  more. 

"  Mr.  Joseph  Mitts  is  a  gentleman  of  irre-pip-pip- 
proachable  veracity,"  he  said.  "I  can  kik-kik-confidently 
confirm  any  statements  he  has  made  about  me." 

"And  why  —  "  Mr.  Copernicus  had  found  his  voice 
—  "why  have  you  humbugged  me  in  this  iniquitous  — 
infamous  way?" 

The  late  Otiinlan  gazed  at  him  with  blank  surprise. 

"My  dear  sir,  did-did-don't  you  see?  If  I'd  told 
you  who  I  was,  you  'd  have  thought  I  was  a  did-did-damn 
fool  not  to  know  more  than  I  did.  Whereas,  don't  you 
see?  you  thought  I  was  a  did-did-devil  of  a  fellow." 

"  Get  up  and  dress  yourself  and  get  out  of  here !  " 
said  his  employer. 

"The  jig,  then,"  inquired  Mr.  Dudley  Chester, 
slowly  rising,  "is  did-did-definitely  up?  No  more  Fif- 
Fif-French  lessons?  No?  Well,"  he  continued,  as  he 
leisurely  pulled  on  his  trousers,  "that  's  the  kik-kik- 
cussed  inconsistency.  The  j-j-jig  is  up  for  the  gentle- 
man; but  when  you  thought  I  was  a  did-did-damn 
Mick,  I  was  right  in  the  bib-bib-bosom  of  the  blooming 
family." 

"  Here  are  your  week's  wages,"  said  Mr.  Coperni- 
cus, trembling  with  rage.      "Now,  get  out!" 

"Not  exactly,"  responded  the  unperturbed  sinner: 
"  a  ticket  to  Chicago  !  " 


t6o  "SHORT  SIXES." 

"I'm  afraid  you  had  best  yield,"  whispered  Mr. 
Mitts.  "  Your  family,,  you  know.  It  would  n't  do  to 
have  this  get  out." 

Mr.-  Copernicus  had  a  minute  of  purple  rage.  Then 
he  handed  the  money  to  Mr.  Mitts. 

"Put  him  on  the  train,"  he  said.  "  There 's  one 
at  twelve." 

"We  can  make  it  if  we  hurry,"  said  the  obliging 
Mr.  Mitts.      "Where  's  your  lodging-house,  Chester?" 

Chester  opened  his  eyes  inquiringly.  "Why,  this 
is  all  I  've  got,"  he  said;  "what 's  the  mim-mim-matter 
with  this?" 

"But  your  —  your  luggage?"  inquired  Mr.  Mitts. 

Mr.  Chester  waved  a  much-worn  tooth-brush  in 
the  air. 

"Man  wants  but  lil-lil-little  here  below,"  he  re- 
marked. 


"  You  see,"  explained  Mr.  Dudley  Winthrop  Ches- 
ter, formerly  Quinlan,  as  he  stepped  out  into  the  night 
air  with  Mr.  Mitts,  "  the  scheme  is  bib-bib-busted  here, 
but  I  've  got  confidence  in  it.  It  's  good  —  it  '11  gig- 
gig-go.  Chicago  's  the  pip-pip-place  for  me.  I  sup- 
pose if  you  flash  up  '  amo,  amas '  to  a  Chicago  man, 
he  thinks  you  're  Elihu  Burritt,  the  learned  bib-bib- 
blacksmith." 

"Aren't  you  tired  of  this  life  of  false  pretences?" 
asked  Mr.  Mitts,  sternly. 

"You  can  bib-bib-bet  I  am,"  responded  Chester, 


MR.  COPERNICUS  AND  THE  PROLETARIAT.      161 


frankly;     "I    haven't  said   a   cuss-word   in   six   months. 
Did-did-did-damn  —  damn  —  damn  —  damn  !  "    he   vo- 
ciferated into  the  calm  air  of  night,  by 
way  of  relieving  his  pent-up  feelings. 
'  How  long  is  it,  Dudley,"  pur- 
sued the  patient  Mitts,    "since 
your  parents  heard  from  you  ?  " 
"  Two    years,    I    gig- gig- 
guess,"   said    Chester.      "  By 
Jove,"  he  added,   as  his  eye 
fell  on  the  blue  sign  of  a  tele- 
graph office,    "did-did-damn  if 
I  don't  telegraph  them  right  now." 
Mr.    Mitts  was  deeply  gratified.     "That  s  a  good 
idea,"  he  said. 

"  Lend    me    a    kik-kik-quarter,"    said 
Dudley  Chester. 


At  midnight  sharp,  Mr.  Mitts  saw  his 
charge  ascend  the  rear  platform  of  the 
Chicago  train  just  as  it  moved  out  of  the 
gloomy  Jersey  City  station  of  the  Penn- 
sylvania Railroad. 

A  young  woman  of  slight  figure,  with 
a  veil  about  her  face,  emerged  from  the 
interior  of  the  car  and  threw  her  arms 
around  the  neck  of  Mr.  Chester,  late  Ouinlan. 

"I  thought  I  wasn't  mistaken."  said  Mr.  Mitts  to 
himself. 


162 


SHORT   SIXES.'1 


The  next  week  he  received  an  envelope  containing 
a  scrap  roughly  torn  out  of  a  daily  paper.  It  read  as 
follows : 

MARRIL 

SCHOFF.-At   tli- 

.S  the  Rev.  Dr.  Krotej, 

Bischoff.  daughter  of 
off.   to   Theodore    Breusino.    of    Oscabriye.  - 
many. 

CHE9TER-C0PERN1CD9.-Atlhe  rectory  of  the 
Church  of  St.  Jamos  the  Greater,  by  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Wilson  Wilson.  D  D..  Flobetta.  daughter  of 
Thomas  CoperDicus.  of  New  York,  to  Dudle? 
Wimtheop  Chester,  of  Baltimore.  Md,    No  cards 


Mai  rlaffe  r 
extra  cbar 
Loodi'p 


■Kh  nax* 


»d,  without 

",her  the 


Rt 


And  yet,  within  six  months,  Mr.  Mitts  received 
cards.  They  bade  him  to  a  reception  given  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Chester  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Thomas  Copernicus. 

"/  could  n't  have  done  that,"  said  Mr.  Mitts  to 
himself. 


HECTOR. 


.^ 


o 


HECTOR. 


IT  was  such  a  quiet  old  home,  so  comfortably  covered 
with  wistaria  from  basement  to  chimney-tops,  and  it 
stood  on  the  corner  of  two  such  quiet,  old-fashioned 
streets  on  the  East  side  of  New  York  that  you  would 
never  have  imagined  that  it  held  six  of  the  most  agitated 
and  perturbed  women  in  the  great  city.  But  the  three 
Miss  Pellicoes,  their  maid,  their  waitress  and  their  cook, 
could  not  have  been  more  troubled  in 
their  feminine  minds  had  they 
been  six  exceptionally  attract- 
ive Sabines  with  the  Roman 
soldiery  in   full   cry. 

For  twenty  years  —  ever 

since  the  death  of  old  Mr. 

Pellicoe  —  these  six  women 

had  lived  in  mortal  fear  of 

the  marauding  man,  and  the 

Man  had  come  at  last.    That 

very  evening,  at  a  quarter  past 

eight  o'clock,  a  creature  who  called 

himself  a  book-agent  had  rung  the 


i66  "SHORT  SIXES." 

front  door  bell.  Honora,  the  waitress,  had  opened  the 
door  a  couple  of  inches,  inquired  the  stranger's  business, 
learned  it,  told  him  to  depart,  tried  to  close  the  door, 
and  discovered  that  the  man  had  inserted  his  toe  in  the 
opening.  She  had  closed  the  door  violently,  and  the 
man  had  emitted  a  single  oath  of  deep  and  sincere  pro- 
fanity. He  had  then  kicked  the  door  and  departed,  with 
a  marked  limp. 

At  least  this  was  the  story  as  Honora  first  related  it. 
But  as  she  stood  before  the  assembled  household  and 
recounted  it  for  the  seventh  time,  it  had  assumed  propor- 
tions that  left  no  room  for  the  charitable  hypothesis  that 
an  innocent  vender  of  literature  had  been  the  hapless 
victim  of  his  own  carelessness  or  clumsiness. 

"  And  whin  he  had  the  half  of  his  big  ugly  body 
in  the  crack  o'  th'  dure,"  she  said,  in  excited  tones  and 
with  fine  dramatic  action,  "  and  him  yellin'  an'  swearin' 
and  cussin'  iv'ry  holy  name  he  could  lay  his  black  tongue 
to,  and  me  six  years  cook  in  a  convent,  and  I  t'rew  th' 
whole  weight  o'  me  on  th'  dure,  an'  —  " 

"  That  will  do,  Honora,"  said  Miss  Pellicoe,  who 
was  the  head  of  the  household.  She  perceived  that  the 
combat  was  deepening  too  rapidly.  "  You  may  go.  We 
will  decide  what  is  to  be  done." 

And  Miss  Pellicoe  had  decided  what  was  to  be  done. 

"Sisters,"  she  said  to  her  two  juniors,  "we  must 
keep  a  dog." 

"A  dog!  "  cried  Miss  Angela,  the  youngest;  "oh, 
how  nice  !  " 

"  I  do  not  think  it  is  nice  at  all,"  said  Miss  Pellicoe, 


HECTOR.  167 

somewhat  sternly,  "nor  would  you,  Angela,  if  you  had 
any  conception  of  what  it  really  meant.  I  do  not  pro- 
pose to  keep  a  lap-dog,  or  a  King  Charles  spaniel,  but  a 
dog — a  mastiff,  or  a  bloodhound,  or  some  animal  of 
that  nature,  such  as  would  spring  at  the  throat  of  an 
invader,  and  bear  him  to  the  ground  ! " 

"Oh,  dear!"  gasped  Miss  Angela.  "I  should  be 
afraid  of  him  !  " 

"You  do  not  understand  as  yet,  Angela,"  Miss 
Pellicoe  explained,  knitting  her  brows.  "  My  intention 
is  to  procure  the  animal  as  a  —  in  fact  —  a  puppy,  and 
thus  enable  him  to  grow  up  and  to  regard  us  with  affec- 
tion, and  be  willing  to  hold  himself  at  all  times  in  readi- 
ness to  afford  us  the  protection  we  desire.  It  is  clearly 
impossible  to  have  a  man  in  the  house.  I  have  decided 
upon  a  mastiff." 

When  Miss  Pellicoe  decided  upon  a  thing,  Miss 
Angela  Pellicoe  and  her  other  sister  promptly  acquiesced. 
On  this  occasion  they  did  not,  even  in  their  inmost 
hearts,  question  the  wisdom  of  the  decision  of  the  head 
of  the  house.  A  man,  they  knew,  was  not  to  be  thought 
of.  For  twenty  years  the  Pellicoe  house  had  been  a 
bower  of  virginity.  The  only  men  who  ever*  entered  it 
were  the  old  family  doctor,  the  older  family  lawyer,  and 
annually,  on  New  Year's  Day,  in  accordance  with  an 
obsolete  custom,  Major  Kitsedge,  their  father's  old 
partner,  once  junior  of  the  firm  of  Pellicoe  &.  Kitsedge. 
Not  even  the  butcher  or  the  baker  or  the  candlestick- 
maker  forced  an  entrance  to  that  innocent  dovecote. 
They  handed  in  their  wares  through  a  wicket- gate  in  the 


168 


SHORT  SIXES." 


back  yard  and  were  sent  about  their  business  by  the 
chaste  Honora. 

The  next  morning,  having  awakened  to  find  them- 
selves and  the  silver  still  safe,  Miss  Pellicoe  and  Miss 
Angela  set  out  for  a  dog  store  which  they  had  seen  ad- 
vertised in  the  papers.  It  was  in  an  unpleasantly  low 
and  ill-bred  part  of  the  town,  and  when  the  two  ladies 
reached  it,  they  paused  outside  the  door,  and  listened, 
with  lengthened  faces,  to  the  combined  clamor  and  smell 
that  emanated  from  its  open  door. 
"  This,"  said  Miss 
Pellicoe,  after  a  brief 
deliberation,  "is  not 
a  place  for  us.  If 
we  are  to  procure  a 
dog,  he  must  be  pro- 
cured in  some 
other  way.  It  need 
not  entail  a  loss  of 
self-respect. 

"I  have  it!" 
she  added  with  a 
sudden  inspira- 
tion. "  I  will  write 
to  Hector." 
Hector  was  the  sole  male  representative  of  the  Pel- 
licoe family.  He  was  a  second  cousin  of  the  Misses 
Pellicoe.  He  lived  out  West  —  his  address  varying  from 
year  to  year.  Once  in  a  long  while  Miss  Pellicoe  wrote 
to  him,  just  to  keep  herself  in  communication  with  the 


HECTOR.  i6g 

Man  of  the  family.  It  made  her  feel  more  secure,  in 
view  of  possible  emergencies.  She  had  not  seen  Hector 
since  he  was  nineteen.  He  was  perhaps  the  last  person 
of  any  positive  virility  who  had  had  the  freedom  of  the 
Pellicoe  household.  He  had  used  that  freedom  mainly 
in  making  attempts  to  kiss  Honora,  who  was  then  in  her 
buxom  prime,  and  in  decorating  the  family  portraits  with 
cork  moustaches  and  whiskers.  Miss  Pellicoe  clung  to 
the  Man  of  the  family  as  an  abstraction ;  but  she  was 
always  glad  that  he  lived  in  the  West.  Addressing  him 
in  his  capacity  of  Man  of  the  family,  she  wrote  to  him 
and  asked  him  to  supply  her  with  a  young  mastiff,  and 
to  send  her  bill  therefor.  She  explained  the  situation  to 
him,  and  made  him  understand  that  the  dog  must  be  of 
a  character  to  be  regarded  as  a  male  relative. 

Hector  responded  at  once.  He  would  send  a  mastiff 
pup  within  a  week.  The  pup's  pedigree  was,  unfortu- 
nately, lost,  but  the  breed  was  high.  Fifty  dollars  would 
cover  the  cost  and  expenses  of  transportation.  The  pup 
was  six  months  old. 

For  ten  days  the  Pellicoe  household  was  in  a  fever 
of  expectation.  Miss  Pellicoe  called  in  a  carpenter,  and, 
chaperoned  by  the  entire  household,  held  an  interview 
with  him,  and  directed  him  how  to  construct  a  dog-house 
in  the  back-yard  —  a  dog-house  with  one  door  about  six 
inches  square,  to  admit  the  occupant  in  his  innocent 
puphood,  and  with  another  door  about  four  feet  in  height 
to  emit  him,  when,  in  the  pride  of  his  mature  mascu- 
linity, he  should  rush  forth  upon  the  burglar  and  the 
book-agent.      The   carpenter  remarked  that  he  "never 


I"JO 


SHORT   SIXES." 


seen  no  such  a  dorg  as  that;"  but  Miss  Pellicoe  thought 
him  at  once  ignorant  and  ungrammatical,  and  paid  no 
heed  to  him. 

In  conclave  assembled,  the  Misses  Pellicoe  decided 
to  name  the  dog  Hector.  Beside  the  consideration  of 
the  claims  of  gratitude  and  family  affection,  they  remem- 
bered that  Hector  was  a  classical  hero. 

The  ten  days  came  to  an  end  when,  just  at  dusk  of 
a  dull  January  day,  two  stalwart  expressmen,  with  much 
open  grumbling  and  smothered  cursing,  deposited  a  huge 
packing-case  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Pellicoe  house,  and 
departed,  slamming  the  doors  behind  them.  From  this 
box  proceeded  such  yelps  and  howls  that  the  entire 
household  rushed  affrighted  to  peer  through  the  slats 
that  gridironed  the  top.  Within  was  a  mighty  black 
beast,  as  high  as  a  table,  that  flopped  itself  wildly  about, 
clawed  at  the  sides  of  the  box,  and  swung  in  every  direc- 
tion a  tail  as  large  as  a  policeman's  night-club. 

It  was  Hector.  There  was  no  mistake  about  it,  for 
Mr.  Hector  Pellicoe's  card  was  nailed  to  a  slat.  It  was 
Hector,  the  six-months-old  pup,  for  whose  diminutive 
proportions  fhe  small  door  in  the  dog-house  had  been 
devised;  Hector,  for  whom  a  saucer  of  lukewarm  milk 
was  even  then  waiting  by  the  kitchen  range. 

"Oh,  Sister!"  cried  Miss  Angela,  "we  never  can 
get  him  out !      You  '11  have  to  send  for  a  man  /  " 

"  I  certainly  shall  not  send  for  a  man  at  this  hour 
of  the  evening,"  said  Miss  Pellicoe,  white,  but  firm; 
"and  I  shall  not  leave  the  poor  creature  imprisoned 
during  the  night."      Here  Hector  yawped  madly. 


HECTOR.  171 

"I  shall  take  him  out,"  concluded  Miss  Pellicoe, 
"  myself/  " 

They  hung  upon  her  neck,  and  entreated  her  not  to 
risk  her  life;  but  Miss  Pellicoe  had  made  up  her  mind. 
The  three  maids  shoved  the  box  into  the  butler's  pantry, 
shrieking  with  terror  every  time  that  Hector  leaped  at 
the  slats,  and  at  last,  with  the  two  younger  Pellicoes 
holding  one  door  a  foot  open,  and  the  three  maids  hold- 
ing the  other  door  an  inch  open,  Miss  Pellicoe  seized  the 
household  hatchet,  and  began  her  awful  task.  One  slat ! 
Miss  Pellicoe  was  white  but  firm.  Two  slats !  Miss 
Pellicoe  was  whiter  and  firmer.  Three  slats  !  —  and  a 
vast  black  body  leaped  high  in  the  air.  With  five  simul- 
taneous shrieks,  the  two  doors  were  slammed  to,  and 
Miss  Pellicoe  and  Hector  were  left  together  in  the  but- 
ler's pantry. 

The  courage  of  the  younger  Pellicoes  asserted  itself 
after  a  moment,  and  they  flung  open  the  pantry  door. 
Miss  Pellicoe,  looking  as  though  she  needed  aromatic 
vinegar,  leaned  against  the  wall.  Hector  had  his  fore- 
paws  on  her  shoulders,  and  was  licking  her  face  in 
exuberant  affection. 

"Sisters,"  gasped  Miss  Pellicoe,  "will  you  kindly 
remove  him?     I  should  like  to  faint." 

But  Hector  had  already  released  her  to  dash  at  Miss 
Angela,  who  frightened  him  by  going  into  such  hysterics 
that  Miss  Pellicoe  was  obliged  to  deny  herself  the  luxury 
of  a  faint.  Then  he  found  the  maids,  and,  after  driving 
them  before  him  like  chaff  for  five  minutes,  succeeded 
in   convincing    Honora   of   the    affectionate-  purpose   of 


rja 


short  sixes: 


his  demonstrations,  and  accepted  her  invitation  to  the 
kitchen,  where  he  emptied  the  saucer  of  milk  in 
three  laps. 

"  I    think,    Honora,"  suggested   Miss   Pellicde,  who 
had  resumed  command,    "  that  you 
might,    perhaps,    give    him    a 
slice   or   two    of  last   night's 
leg    of   mutton.       Perhaps 
he   needs  something  more 
sustaining." 

Honora    produced    the 
mutton-leg.     It  was  clearly 
what    Hector    wanted.       He 
took  it  from  her  without  cere- 
mony, bore  it  under  the  sink  and 
ate  all  of  it  except  about  six  inches  of  the  bone,  which 
he  took  to  bed  with  him. 

The  next  day,  feeling  the  need  of  masculine  advice, 
Miss  Pellicoe  resolved  to  address  herself  to  the  policeman 
on  the  beat,  and  she  astonished  him  with  the  following 
question  : 

"Sir,"  she  said,  in  true  Johnsonian  style,  "what 
height  should  a  mastiff  dog  attain  at  the  age  of  six 
months?  " 

The  policeman  stared  at  her  in  utter  astonishment. 
"They  do  be  all  sizes,  Mum,"  he  replied,  blankly, 
"like  a  piece  of  cheese." 

"  My  relative  in  the  West,"  explained  Miss  Pellicoe, 
"  has  sent  me  a  dog,  and  I  am  given  to  understand  that 
his  age  is  six   months.      As  he  is  phenomenally  large, 


HECTOR 


m 


I  have  thought  it  best  to  seek  for  information. 
Has   my   relative   been    imposed    upon  ? " 

"  It 's  har-r-rd  to  tell,  Mum,"  replied 
the  policeman,  dubiously.    Then  his  coun- 
tenance  brightened.       "  Does  his   feet 
fit  him?  "  he  inquired. 

"What  —  what  do  you  mean?" 
asked  Miss  Pellicoe,  shrinking  back 
a   little. 

"  Is  his  feet  like  blackin'-boxes  on 
th'  ind  of  his  legs  ?  " 

"They  are  certainly  very  large." 

"Thin  't  is  a  pup.     You  see,  Mum, 
with  a  pup,  't  is  this  way.      The  feet  starts 
first,  an'  the  pup  grows  up  to  'em,  like.     Av  they  match 
him,  he  's  grown.      Av  he  has  arctics  on,  he  's  a  pup." 


Hector's  growth  in  the  next  six  months  dissipated 
all  doubts  as  to  his  puphood.  He  became  a  four-legged 
Colossus,  martial  toward  cats,  aggressive  toward  the 
tradesmen  at  the  wicket-gate,  impartially  affectionate 
toward  all  the  household,  and  voracious  beyond  all  imag- 
ining. But  he  might  have  eaten  the  gentle  ladies  out 
of  house  and  home,  and  they  would  never  have  dreamed 
of  protesting.  The  house  had  found  a  Head  —  even  a 
Head  above  Miss  Pellicoe. 

The  deposed  monarch  gloried  in  her  subjection. 
She  said   "  Hector  likes  this,"  or   "  Hector  likes  that," 


174  •'SHORT   SIXES." 

with  the  tone  of  submissive  deference  in  which  you  may- 
hear  a  good  wife  say,  "Mr.  Smith  will  not  eat  cold 
boiled  mutton,"  or  "Mr.  Smith  is  very  particular  about 
his  shirt-bosoms." 

As  for  Miss  Angela,  she  never  looked  at  Hector, 
gamboling  about  the  back-yard  in  all  his  superabundance 
of  strength  and  vitality,  without  feeling  a  half-agreeable 
nervous  shock,  and  a  flutter  of  the  heart.  He  stood  for 
her  as  the  type  of  that  vast  outside  world  of  puissant 
manhood  of  which  she  had  known  but  two  specimens  — 
her  father  and  Cousin  Hector.  Perhaps,  in  the  old  days, 
if  Cousin  Hector  had  not  been  so  engrossed  in  frivolity 
and  making  of  practical  jokes,  he  might  have  learned  of 
something  to  his  advantage.      But  he  never  did. 


For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Miss  Angela  found 
herself  left  to  watch  the  house  through  the  horrors  of 
the  Fourth  of  July.  This  had  always  been  Miss  Pelli- 
coe's  duty ;  but  this  year  Miss  Pellicoe  failed  to  come 
back  from  the  quiet  place  in  the  Catskills,  where  no 
children  were  admitted,  and  where  the  Pellicoe  family, 
two  at  a  time,  spent  the  Summer  in  the  society  of  other 
old  maids  and  of  aged  widows. 

"  I  feel  that  you  are  safe  with  Hector,"  she  wrote. 

Alack  and  alack  for  Miss  Pellicoe's  faith  in  Hector ! 
The  first  fire-cracker  filled  him  with  excitement,  and 
before  the  noises  of  the  day  had  fairly  begun,  he  was 
careering   around   the    yard,    barking   in   uncontrollable 


HECTOR. 


ns 


frenzy.      At  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  butcher-boy  came 
with  the  chops  for  luncheon,  Hector  bounded  through 
the    open    wicket,    right   into   the   arms   of  a   dog- 
catcher.      Miss   Angela  wrung  her  hands  as 
she  gazed  from  her  window  and  saw  the 
Head  of  the   House  cast  into  the  cage 
with  a  dozen  curs  of  the  street   and 
driven  rapidly  off. 

In  her  lorn  anguish  she  sought 
the  functionary  who  was  known  in  the 
house  as  "  Miss  Pellicoe's  policeman." 

"Be  aisy,  Miss,"  he  said.      "  Av 
the  dog  is  worth  five  dollars,  say,  to  yez, 
I  have  a  friend  will  get  him  out  for  th'  accommodation." 

"  Oh,   take  it,  take  it !  "  cried  Miss  Angela,  trem- 
bling and  weeping. 


After  six  hours  of  anxious  waiting,  Miss  Angela 
received  Hector  at  the  front  door,  from  a  boy  who  turned 
and  fled  as  soon  as  his  mission  was  accomplished.  Hec- 
tor was  extremely  glad  to  be  at  home,  and  his  health 
seemed  to  be  unimpaired;  but  to  Miss  Angela's  delicate 
fancy,  contact  with  the  vulgar  of  his  kind  had  left  a 
vague  aroma  of  degradation  about  him.  With  her  own 
hands  she  washed  him  in  tepid  water  and  sprinkled  him 
with  eau  de  cologne.  And  even  then  she  could  not  help 
feeling  that  to  some  extent  the  bloom  had  been  brushed 
from  the  peach. 


r?6  "SHORT    SIXES." 

Hector  was  ill  — -  very  ill.  The  family  conclave 
assembled  every  night  and  discussed  the  situation  with 
knit  brows  and  tearful  eyes.  They  could  not  decide 
whether  the  cause  of  his  malady  was  the  unwholesome- 
ness  of  the  Summer  air  in  the  city,  or  whether  it  was 
simply  over-feeding.  He  was  certainly  shockingly  fat, 
and  much  indisposed  to  exertion.  He  had  lost  all  his 
activity;  all  his  animal  spirits.  He  spent  most  of  the 
time  in  his  house.  Even  his  good-nature  was  going. 
He  had  actually  snapped  at  Honora.  They  had  tried  to 
make  up  their  minds  to  reduce  his  rations ;  but  their 
hearts  had  failed  them.  They  had  hoped  that  the  cool 
air  of  September  would  help  him ;  but  September  was 
well  nigh  half  gone ;    and  Hector  grew  worse  and  worse. 

"  Sisters,"  said  Miss  Pellicoe,  at  last,  "we  shall  have 
to  send  for  a  Veterinary  !  "  She  spoke  as  though  she  had 
just  decided  to  send  for  an  executioner.  And  even  as  the 
words  left  her  lips  there  came  from  Hector  such  a  wail  of 
anguish  that  Miss  Pellicoe's  face  turned  a  ghastly  white. 

"  He  is  going  mad  !  "  she  cried. 

There  was  no  sleep  in  the  Pellicoe  household  that 
night,  although  Hector  wailed  no  more.  At  the  break 
of  day,  Miss  Pellicoe  led  five  other  white-faced  women 
into  the  back  yard. 

Hector's  head  lay  on  the  sill  of  his  door.  He  seemed 
too  weak  to  rise,  but  he  thrashed  his  tail  pleasantly 
against  the  walls,  and  appeared  amiable  and  even  cheer- 
ful.     The  six  advanced. 

Miss  Pellicoe  knelt  down  and  put  her  hand  in  to 
pet  him.    Then  a  strange  expression  came  over  her  face. 


"  Sister,"  she  said,  "  I  think  —  a  cat  has  got  in  and 
bitten  him." 

She  closed  her  hand  on  something  soft,  lifted  it  out 
and  laid  it  on  the  ground.  It  was  small,  it  was  black,  it 
was  dumpy.  It  moved  a  round  head  in  an  uncertain, 
inquiring  way,  and  tried  to  open  its  tightly-closed  eyes. 
Then  it  squeaked. 

Thrice  more  did  Miss  Pellicoe  thrust  her  hand  into 
the  house.  Thrice  again  did  she  bring  out  an  object 
exactly  similar. 

"  Wee-e-e-e  !"  squeaked  the  four  objects.  Hector 
thrashed  her  tail  about  and  blinked  joyfully,  all  uncon- 
scious of  the  utter  wreck  of  her  masculinity,  looking  as 
though  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  for 
her  to  have  a  litter  of  pups  —  as,  indeed,  it  was. 

Honora  broke  the  awful  silence,  —  Miss  Angela  was 
sobbing  so  softly  you  could  scarcely  hear  her. 

"Be  thim  Hector's?"  Honora  inquired. 


t7S 


SNORT  SIXES." 


"  Honora ! "  said  Miss  Pellicoe,  rising,  "never  utter 
that  name  in  my  presence  again." 

"An'  fwat  shall  I  call  the  dog?" 

"  Call  it"  —  and  Miss  Pellicoe  made  a  pause  of  im- 
pressive severity,  "call  it —  Andromache." 


A    SISTERLY    SCHEME. 


~. 


K 


A   SISTERLY   SCHEME. 

AWAY  UP  in  the  very  heart  of  Maine  there  is  a  mighty 
lake  among  the  mountains.  It  is  reached  after  a 
journey  of  many  hours  from  the  place  where  you  "go 
in."  That  is  the  phrase  of  the  country,  and  when  you 
have  once  "gone  in,"  you  know  why  it  is  not  correct  to 
say  that  you  have  gone  through  the  woods,  or,  simply, 
to  your  destination.  You  find  that  you  have  plunged 
into  a  new  world  —  a  world  that  has  nothing  in  common 
with  the  world  that  you  live  in  ;  a  world  of  wild,  solemn, 
desolate  grandeur,  a  world  of  space  and  silence ;  a  world 
that  oppresses  your  soul  —  and  charms  you  irresistibly. 
And  after  you  have  once  "come  out"  of  that  world,  there 
will  be  times,  to  the  day  of  your  death,  when  you  will  be 
homesick  for  it,  and  will  long  with  a  childlike  longing  to 
go  back  to  it. 

Up  in  this  wild  region  you  will  find  a  fashionable 
Summer-hotel,  with  electric  bells  and  seven-course  din- 
ners, and  "guests"  who  dress  three  times  a  day.  It  is 
perched  on  a  little  flat  point,  shut  off  from  the  rest  of 
the  mainland  by  a  huge  rocky  cliff".  It  is  an  impertinence 
in  that  majestic  wilderness,  and  Leather-Stocking  would 


t8a 


short  sixes: 


doubtless  have  had  a  hankering  to  burn  such  an  affront 
to  Nature ;   but  it  is  a  good  hotel,  and  people  go  to  it  and 
breathe   the   generous  air  of  the 
great  woods. 

On    the    beach    near   this 
hotel,  where  the  canoes  were 
drawn  up  in  line,  there  stood 
one  Summer  morning  a  curly- 
haired,  fair  young  man  —  not 
so  very  young,  either  —  whose 
cheeks  were  uncomfortably  red 
as  he  looked  first  at  his  own 
canoe,   high  and  dry,  loaded 
with  rods  and  landing-net  and 
luncheon-basket,  and  then  at 
another  canoe,  fast  disappear- 
ing down  the  lake,  wherein  sat 
a  young  man  and  a  young  woman. 
"Dropped  again,  Mr.   Morpeth?" 
The   young  man  looked  up  and  saw  a  saucy  face 
laughing  at  him.    A  girl  was  sitting  on  the  string-piece  of 
the  dock.      It  was  the  face  of  a  girl  between  childhood 
and  womanhood.      By  the  face  and  the  figure,  it  was  a 
woman  grown.      By  the   dress,  you  would  have  judged 
it  a  girl. 

And  you  would  have  been  confirmed  in  the  latter 
opinion  by  the  fact  that  the  young  person  was  doing 
something  unpardonable  for  a  young  lady,  but  not  inex- 
cusable in  the  case  of  a  youthful  tomboy.  She  had 
taken  off  her  canvas  shoe,  and  was  shaking  some  small 


A  SISTERLY  SCHEME.  i8j 

stones  out  of  it.  There  was  a  tiny  hole  in  her  black 
stocking,  and  a  glimpse  of  her  pink  toe  was  visible.  The 
girl  was  sunburnt,  but  the  toe  was  prettily  pink. 

"Your  sister,"  replied  the  young  man  with  dignity, 
"was  to  have  gone  fishing  with  me;  but  she  remem- 
bered at  the  last  moment  that  she  had  a  prior  engage- 
ment with  Mr.  Brown." 

"  She  had  n't,"  said  the  girl.  "I  heard  them  make 
it  up  last  evening,  after  you  went  upstairs." 

The  young  man  clean  forgot  himself. 

"  She  's  the  most  heartless  coquette  in  the  world!" 
he  cried,   and  clinched  his  hands. 

"  She  is  all  that,"  said  the  young  person  on  the 
string-piece  of  the  dock,  "and  more  too.  And  yet,  I 
suppose,  you  want  her  all  the  same?" 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  do,"  said  the  young  man,  miserably. 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  putting  her  shoe  on  again, 
and  beginning  to  tie  it  up,  "  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  Mr. 
Morpeth.  You  've  been  hanging  around  Pauline  for  a 
year,  and  you  are  the  only  one  of  the  men  she  keeps  on 
a  string  who  has  n't  snubbed  me.  Now,  if  you  want  me 
to,  I  '11  give  you  a  lift." 

"  A  —  a  —  what?  " 

"A  lift.  You  're  wasting  your  time.  Pauline  has 
no  use  for  devotion.  It 's  a  drug  in  the  market  with  her 
—  has  been  for  five  seasons.  There  's  only  one  way  to 
get  her  worked  up.  Two  fellows  tried  it,  and  they  nearly 
got  there ;  but  they  were  n't  game  enough  to  stay  to  the 
bitter  end.  I  think  you  're  game,  and  I  '11  tell  you. 
You  've  got  to  make  her  jealous." 


1 84  "  SHORT  SIXES." 

"  Make  her  jealous  of  me?  " 

"No!  "  said  his  friend,  with  infinite  scorn;  "make 
her  jealous  of  the  other  girl.  Oh  /  but  you  men  are 
stupid  !  " 

The  young  man  pondered  a  moment. 

"Well,  Flossy,"  he  began,  and  then  he  became 
conscious  of  a  sudden  change  in  the  atmosphere,  and 
perceived  that  the  young  lady  was  regarding  him  with 
a  look  that  might  have  chilled  his  soul. 

"Miss  Flossy  —  Miss  Belton — "  he  hastily  corrected 
himself.  Winter  promptly  changed  to  Summer  in  Miss 
Flossy  Belton's  expressive  face. 

"Your  scheme,"  he  went  on,  "is  a  good  one.  Only 
—  it  involves  the  discovery  of  another  girl." 

"Yes,"  assented  Miss  Flossy,  cheerfully. 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man,  "doesn't  it  strike 
you  that  if  I  were  to  develop  a  sudden  admiration  for 
any  one  of  these  other  young  ladies  whose  charms  I 
have  hitherto  neglected,  it  would  come  tardy  off —  lack 
artistic  verisimilitude,  so  to  speak?" 

"  Rather,"  was  Miss  Flossy's  prompt  and  frank 
response;  "especially  as  there  isn't  one  of  them  fit  to 
flirt  with." 

"  Well,  then,  where  am  I  to  discover  the  girl? " 

Miss  Flossy  untied  and  retied  her  shoe.  Then  she 
said,  calmly  : 

"What's  the  matter  with  — "  a  hardly  perceptible 
hesitation —  "  me  ?  " 

"  With  you  ?  "  Mr.  Morpeth  was  startled  out  of  his 
manners. 


A  SISTERLY  SCHEME.  i85 

"Yes!  " 

Mr.  Morpeth  simply  stared. 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  Miss  Flossy,  "I  'm  not  good- 
looking  enough  ? " 

"You  are  good-looking  enough,"  replied  Mr.  Mor- 
peth, recovering  himself,  "for  anything  — "  and  he 
threw  a  convincing  emphasis  into  the  last  word  as  he 
took  what  was  probably  his  first  real  inspection  of  his 
adored  one's  junior  —  "but  —  are  n't  you  a  trifle  — 
young?  " 

"How  old  do  you  suppose  I  am?" 

"I  know.     Your  sister  told  me.      You  are  sixteen." 

"  Sixteen  !  "  repeated  Miss  Flossy,  with  an  infinite 
and  uncontrollable  scorn,  "yes,  and  I  'm  the  kind  of 
sixteen  that  stays  sixteen  till  your  elder  sister  's  married. 
1  was  eighteen  years  old  on  the  third  of  last  December 
—  unless  they  began  to  double  on  me  before  I  was  old 
enough  to  know  the  difference  —  it  would  be  just  like 
Mama  to  play  it  on  me  in  some  such  way,"  she  con- 
cluded, reflectively. 

"Eighteen  years  old  !"  said  the  young  man.  "  The 
deuce  ! "  Do  not  think  that  he  was  an  ill-bred  young 
man.  He  was  merely  astonished,  and  he  had  much  more 
astonishment  ahead  of  him.      He  mused  for  a  moment. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  's  your  plan  of  campaign? 
I  am  to  —  to  discover  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Flossy,  calmly,  "and  to  flirt  with 
me  like  fun." 

"And  may  I  ask  what  attitude  you  are  to  take  when 
you  are  —  discovered?" 


t86  "SHORT   SIXES." 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  imperturbable  Flossy.  "I 
am  going  to  dangle  you." 

"  To  —  to  dangle  me  ? " 

"  As  a  conquest,  don't  you  know.  Let  you  hang 
round  and  laugh  at  you." 

"Oh,   indeed?" 

"There,  don't  be  wounded  in  your  masculine  pride. 
You  might  as  well  face  the  situation.  You  don't  think 
that  Pauline  's  in  love  with  you,  do  you?" 

"  No  !  "  groaned  the  young  man. 

"  But  you  've  got  lots  of  money.  Mr.  Brown  has 
got  lots  more.  You  're  eager.  Brown  is  coy.  That 's 
the  reason  that  Brown  is  in  the  boat  and  you  are  on  the 
cold,  cold  shore,  talking  to  Little  Sister.  Now  if  Little 
Sister  jumps  at  you,  why,  she  's  simply  taking  Big  Sister's 
leavings;  it's  all  in  the  family,  any  way,  and  there  's 
no  jealousy,  and  Pauline  can  devote  her  whole  mind  to 
Brown.  There,  don't  look  so  limp.  You  men  are  simply 
childish.     Now,  after  you  've  asked  me  to  marry  you  — " 

"Oh,  I  'm  to  ask  you  to  marry  me?" 

"Certainly.  You  need  n't  look  frightened,  now.  I 
won't  accept  you.  But  then  you  are  to  go  around  like  a 
wet  cat,  and  mope,  and  hang  on  worse  then  ever.  Then 
Big  Sister  will  see  that  she  can't  afford  to  take  that  sort 
of  thing  from  Little  Sister,  and  then  —  there  's  your 
chance." 

"Oh,  there's  my  chance,  is  it?"  said  Mr.  Morpeth. 
He  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  the  habit  of  repetition. 

"There's  your  only  chance,"  said  Miss  Flossy,  with 
decision. 


A   SISTERLY  SCHEME.  187 

Mr.  Morpeth  meditated.  He  looked  at  the  lake, 
where  there  was  no  longer  sign  or  sound  of  the  canoe, 
and  he  looked  at  Miss  Flossy,  who  sat  calm,  self-confi- 
dent and  careless,  on  the  string-piece  of  the  dock. 

"I  don't  know  how  feasible  — "  he  began. 

"It  's  feasible,"  said  Miss  Flossy,  with  decision. 
"Of  course  Pauline  will  write  to  Mama,  and  of  course 
Mama  will  write  and  scold  me.  But  she  's  got  to  stay  in 
New  York,  and  nurse  Papa's  gout ;  and  the  Miss  Red- 
ingtons  are  all  the  chaperons  we  've  got  up  here,  and 
they  don't  amount  to  any  thing  —  so  I  don't  care." 

"  But  why,"  inquired  the  young  man;  and  his  tone 
suggested  a  complete  abandonment  to  Miss  Flossy's  idea  : 
"why  should  you  take  so  much  trouble  for  me?" 

"  Mr.  Morpeth,"  said  Miss  Flossy,  solemnly,  "  I  'm 
two  years  behind  the  time-table,  and  I  've  got  to  make  a 
strike  for  liberty,  or  die.  And  besides,"  she  added,  "if 
you  are  nice,  it  need  n't  be  such  an  awful  trouble." 

Mr.  Morpeth  laughed. 

"I  '11  try  to  make  it  as  little  of  a  bore  as  possible," 
he  said,  extending  his  hand.     The  girl  did  not  take  it. 

"  Don't  make  any  mistake,"  she  cautioned  him, 
searching  his  face  with  her  eyes;  "this  is  n't  to  be  any 
httle-girl  affair.  Little  Sister  does  n't  want  any  kind, 
elegant,  supercilious  encouragement  from  Big  Sister's 
young  man.  It  's  got  to  be  a  real  flirtation  —  devotion 
no  end,  and  ten  times  as  much  as  ever  Pauline  could  get 
out  of  you  —  and  you've  got  to  keep  your  end  'way  — 
'way  —  'way  up  !  " 

The  young  man  smiled. 


i8S 


SHORT    SIXES." 


"I'll   keep   my  end  up,"   he  said;    "but  are  you 
certain  that  you  can  keep  yours  up  ?  " 

"Well,  I  think  so,"  replied  Miss  Flossy.     "  Pauline 
will  raise  an  awful  row ;   but  if  she  goes  too 
far,  I  '11  tell  my  age,  and  hers,  too.'''' 

Mr.  Morpeth  looked  in  Miss  Flossy's 
calm  face.  Then  he  extended  his  hand 
once  more. 

"  It 's  a  bargain,  so  far  as  I  'm  con- 
cerned," he  said. 

This  time  a  soft   and   small   hand 
met  his  with  a  firm,  friendly,   honest 
pressure. 
"  And  I  '11  refuse  you,"  said  Miss  Flossy. 


Within  two  weeks,  Mr.  Morpeth  found  himself  en- 
tangled in  a  flirtation  such  as  he  had  never  dreamed  of. 
Miss  Flossy's  scheme  had  succeeded  only  too  brilliantly. 
The  whole  hotel  was  talking  about  the  outrageous  be- 
havior of  "that  little  Belton  girl"  and  Mr.  Morpeth,  who 
certainly  ought  to  know  better- 
Mr.  Morpeth  had  carried  out  his  instructions.  Be- 
fore the  week  was  out,  he  found  himself  giving  the  most 
life-like  imitation  of  an  infatuated  lover  that  ever  de- 
lighted the  old  gossips  of  a  Summer-resort.  And  yet  he 
had  only  done  what  Flossy  told  him  to  do. 

He  got  his  first  lesson  just  about  the  time  that 
Flossy,  in  the  privacy  of  their  apartments,  informed 
her  elder  sister  that  if  she,  Flossy,  found  Mr.  Morpeth's 


A   SISTERLY  SCHEME. 


i8g 


society  agreeable,  it  was  nobody's  concern  but  her  own, 
and  that  she  was  prepared  to  make  some  interesting 
additions  to  the  census  statistics  if  any  one  thought  dif- 
ferently. 

The  lesson  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  that  it  would  n't  be  a 
bit  of  a  bad  idea  to  telegraph  to  New  York  for  some  real 
nice  candy  and  humbly  present  it  for  my  acceptance  ?  I 
might  take  it  —  if  the  bonbonniere  was   pretty  enough." 

He  telegraphed  to  New  York  and  received,  in  the 
course  of  four  or  five  days,  certain  marvels  of  sweets 
in  a  miracle  of  an  upholstered  box.  The  next  day  he 
found  her  on  the  verandah,  flinging  the  bonbons  on  the 
lawn   for  the   children   to  scramble  for. 

"  Awfully  nice  of  you  to  send  me 
these  things,"  she  said  languidly,  but 
loud  enough  for  the  men  around 
her  to  hear  —  she  had  men  around 
her  already :  she  had  been  discov- 
ered—  "but  I  never  eat  sweets, 
you  know.  Here,  you  little  mite 
in  the  blue  sash,  don't  you  want 
this  pretty  box  to  put  your  doll's 
clothes  in  ?  " 

And  Maillard's  finest  bonbon- 
niere went  to  a  yellow-haired  brat 
of  three. 

But  this  was  the  slightest  and  lightest  of  her  capri- 
ces. She  made  him  send  for  his  dog-cart  and  his  horses, 
all  the  way  from  New  York,  only  that  he  might  drive  her 


igo 


short  sixes: 


over  the  ridiculous  little  mile-and-a-half  of  road  that 
bounded  the  tiny  peninsula.  And  she  christened  him 
"  Muffets,"  a  nickname  presumably  suggested  by  "  Mor- 
peth"; and  she  called  him  "Muffets"  in  the  hearing  of 
all  the  hotel  people. 

And  did  such  conduct  pass  unchallenged?  No. 
Pauline  scolded,  raged,  raved.  She  wrote  to  Mama. 
Mama  wrote  back  and  reproved  Flossy.  But  Mama  could 
not  leave  Papa.  His  gout  was  worse.  The  Miss  Reding- 
tons  must  act.  The  Miss  Redingtons  merely  wept,  and 
nothing  more.  Pauline  scolded  ;  the  flirtation  went  on  ; 
and  the  people  at  the  big  hotel  enjoyed  it  immensely. 

And  there  was  more  to  come.  Four  weeks  had 
passed.  Mr.  Morpeth  was  hardly  on  speaking  terms  with 
the  elder  Miss  Belton ;  and  with  the  younger  Miss  Belton 
he  was  on  terms  which  the  hotel  gossips  characterized  as 
"simply  scandalous."  Brown  glared  at  him  when  they 
met,  and  he  glared  at  Brown.  Brown  was  having  a  hard 
time.  Miss  Belton  the  elder  was  not  pleasant 
of  temper  in  those  trying  days. 

"And    now,"  said   Miss  Flossy  to 
Mr.    Morpeth,    "it  's    time    you 
proposed  to  me,  Muffets." 

They  were  sitting  on  the 
hotel  verandah,  in  the  even- 
ing darkness.  No  one  was 
near  them,  except  an  old 
lady  in  a  Shaker  chair. 
"There  's  Mrs.  Melby. 
She  's  pretending  to  be  asleep, 


A   SISTERLY  SCHEME.  tgl 

but  she  is  n't.  She  's  just  waiting  for  us.  Now  walk  me 
up  and  down  and  ask  me  to  marry  you  so  that  she  can 
hear  it.  It  Ml  be  all  over  the  hotel  inside  of  half  an  hour. 
Pauline  will  just  rage." 

With  this  pleasant  prospect  before  him,  Mr.  Mor- 
peth marched  Miss  Flossy  Belton  up  and  down  the  long 
verandah.  He  had  passed  Mrs.  Melby  three  times  before 
he  was  able  to  say,  in  a  choking,  husky,  uncertain  voice : 

"Flossy —  I  —  I  —  I  love  you  !  " 

Flossy's  voice  was  not  choking  nor  uncertain.  It 
rang  out  clear  and  silvery  in  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  Why,  of  course  you  do,  Muffets,  and  I  wish  you 
did  n't.    That  's  what  makes  you  so  stupid  half  the  time." 

"But  —  "  said  Mr.  Morpeth,  vaguely;    "but  I  —  " 

"But  you're  a  silly  boy,"  returned  Miss  Flossy; 
and  she  added  in  a  swift  aside:  "You  have  n't  asked  me 
to  marry  you  !  " 

"  W-W-W-Will  you  be  my  wife?"  stammered  Mr. 
Morpeth. 

"No  !"  said  Miss  Flossy,  emphatically,  "  I  will  not. 
You  are  too  utterly  ridiculous.  The  idea  of  it !  No, 
Muffets,  you  are  charming  in  your  present  capacity ;  but 
you  are  n't  to  be  considered  seriously." 

They  strolled  on  into  the  gloom  at  the  end  of  the 
great  verandah. 

"  That  's  the  first  time,"  he  said,  with  a  feeling  of 
having  only  the  ghost  of  a  breath  left  in  his  lungs,  "that 
I  ever  asked  a  woman  to  marry  me." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Miss  Flossy,  "  from  the 
way   you   did   it.      And   you   were  beautifully   rejected, 


igs  "SHORT   SIXES." 

were  n't   you.     Now  —  look   at    Mrs.    Melby,    will    you  ? 
She  's  scudding  off  to  spread  the  news." 

And  before  Mr.  Morpeth  went  to  bed,  he  was  aware 
of  the  fact  that  every  man  and  woman  in  the  hotel  knew 
that  he  had  "proposed"  to  Flossy  Belton,  and  had  been 
"beautifully  rejected." 


Two  sulky  men,  one  sulky  woman,  and  one  girl 
radiant  with  triumphant  happiness  started  out  in  two 
canoes,  reached  certain  fishing-grounds  known  only  to 
the  elect,  and  began  to  cast  for  trout.  They  had  indif- 
ferent luck.  Miss  Belton  and  Mr.  Brown  caught  a  dozen 
trout;  Miss  Flossy  Belton  and  Mr.  Morpeth  caught 
eighteen  or  nineteen,  and  the  day  was  wearing  to  a 
close.  Miss  Flossy  made  the  last  cast  of  the  day,  just  as 
her  escort  had  taken  the  paddle.  A  big  trout  rose  —  just 
touched  the  fly  - —  and  disappeared. 

"It's  this  wretched  rod!"  cried  Miss  Flossy  ;  and 
she  rapped  it  on  the  gunwale  of  the  canoe  so  sharply  that 
the  beautiful  split-bamboo  broke  sharp  off  in  the  middle 
of  the  second-joint.  Then  she  tumbled  it  overboard, 
reel  and  all. 

"  I  was  tired  of  that  rod,  any  way,  Muffets,"  she  said ; 
"row  me  home,  now;    I  've  got  to  dress  for  dinner." 

Miss  Flossy's  elder  sister,  in  the  other  boat,  saw  and 
heard  this  exhibition  of  tyranny ;  and  she  was  so  much 
moved  that  she  stamped  her  small  foot,  and  endangered 
the  bottom  of  the  canoe.  She  resolved  that  Mama  should 
come  back,  whether  Papa  had  the  gout  or  not. 


A   SISTERLY  SCHEMA.  f9j 

Mr.  Morpeth,  wearing  a  grave  expression,  was  pad- 
dling Miss  Flossy  toward  the  hotel.  He  had  said  nothing 
whatever,  and  it  was  a  noticeable  silence  that  Miss  Flossy 
finally  broke. 

"You  've  done  pretty  much  everything  that  I  wanted 
you  to  do,  Muffets,"  she  said;  "but  you  haven't  saved 
my  life  yet,  and  I  'm  going  to  give  you  a  chance." 

It  is  not  difficult  to  overturn  a  canoe.      One  twist  of 
Flossie's  supple  body  did  it,  and  before 
he  knew  just  what  had  happened, 
Morpeth  was  swimming  toward 
the  shore,  holding  up  Flossy 
Belton  with    one    arm,    and 
fighting   for    life    in    the   icy 
water  of  a  Maine  lake. 

The    people    were   run- 
ning down,  bearing  blankets 

and  brandy,  as  he  touched  bottom  in  his  last  desperate 
struggle  to  keep  the  two  of  them  above  water.  One 
yard  further,  and  there  would  have  been  no  strength 
left  in  him. 

He  struggled  up  on  shore  with  her,  and  when  he 
got  breath  enough,  he  burst  out : 

"  Why  did  you  do  it  ?  It  was  wicked  !   It  was  cruel !" 

"There!"  she  said,  as  she  reclined  composedly  in 
his  arms,  "that  will  do,  Muffets.  I  don't  want  to  be 
scolded." 

A  delegation  came  along,  bringing  blankets  and 
brandy,  and  took  her  from  him. 


tW  "SHORT  SIXES." 

At  five  o'clock  of  that  afternoon,  Mr.  Morpeth  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  door  of  the  parlor  attached  to  the 
apartments  of  the  Belton  sisters.  Miss  Belton,  senior, 
was  just  coming  out  of  the  room.  She  received  his 
inquiry  after  her  sister's  health  with  a  white  face  and  a 
quivering  lip. 

"I  should  think,  Mr.  Morpeth,"  she  began,  "that 
you  had  gone  far  enough  in  playing  with  the  feelings  of 
a  m-m-mere  child,  and  that  —  oh!  I  have  no  words  to 
express  my  contempt  for  you  !  " 

And  in  a  most  unladylike  rage  Miss  Pauline  Belton 
swept  down  the  hotel  corridor. 

She  had  left  the  door  open  behind  her.  Morpeth 
heard  a  voice,  weak,  but  cheery,  addressing  him  from 
the  far  end  of  the  parlor. 

"You  've  got  her  !"  it  said.  She  's  crazy  mad.  She  '11 
make  up  to  you  to-night  —  see  if  she  don't." 

Mr.  Morpeth  looked  up  and  down  the  long  corridor. 
It  was  empty.      He  pushed  the  door  open,  and  entered. 
Flossy  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  pale,  but 
bright-eyed. 

"  You  can  get  her,"  she  whis- 
pered, as  he  knelt  down  beside  her. 
"  Flossy,"  he  said,  "  don't  you 
know  that  that  is  all  ended  ?     Don't 
you  know  that  I  love  you  and  you 
only  ?   Don't  you  know  that  I  have  n't 
thought  about  any  one  else  since  —  since 
—  oh,  Flossy,  don't  you  —  is  it  possible  that  you  don't 
understand?" 


A  SlSTERL  V  SctikMk, 


195 


Flossy  stretched  out  two  weak  arms,  and  put  them 
around  Mr.  Morpeth's  neck. 

<<  Why  have  I  had  you  in  training  all  Summer?" 
said  she.      "  Did  you  think  it  was  for  Pauline?" 


zozo. 


"*. 


^ 


*S 


s 


zozo. 

THROUGH  A  THICKLY  FALLING  SNOW,  on  the  outskirts 
of  one  of  New  York's  suburban  towns,  (a.  hamlet  of 
some  two  hundred  thousand  population,)  walked  a  man 
who  had  but  one  desire  in  the  world 
ungratified.      His  name  was  Rich- 
ard Brant,  and  he  was  a  large, 
deep -chested,    handsome    man 
—  a    man's    man ;     hardly    a 
..  _^  ..j-,  _     „(M         woman's  man  at  all :   and  yet 
^"^^ripgYrr^^il?----.''       tne  sort  OI"  man  ^at  is  likely 
§haS~£  "  to  make  a  pretty  serious  mat- 

ter of  it  if  he  loves  a  woman, 
or  if  a  woman  loves  him. 
Mr.  Richard  Brant  came  from  the  West,  the  West- 
ern-born child  of  Eastern-born  parents.  He  made  his 
fortune  before  he  was  thirty-five,  and  for  five  years  he 
had  been  trying  to  find  out  what  he  wanted  to  do  with 
that  fortune.  He  was  a  man  of  few  tastes,  of  no  vices, 
and  of  a  straight-forward,  go-ahead  spirit  that  set  him 
apart  from  the  people  who  make  affectation  the  spice  of 
life.    He  wanted  only  one  thing  in  the  world,  and  that 


SHORT    SIXES." 


one  thing  money  would  not  buy  for  him.      So  he  was 
often  puzzled  as  to  how  he  might  best  spend  his  money ; 
and  he  often  spent  it  foolishly.     As  he  walked 
through  the  suburban  streets  of  the  subur- 
ban city,    this   sharp   Winter's  night,    he 
was  reflecting  on    the  folly  of  spending 
money  on  a  fur  coat.      He  was  wearing 
the  coat  —  a  magnificent  affair  of  bear- 
skin and  sable. 

"  South  of  Canada,"  he  said  to  him- 
self,   "this   sort   of  thing  is  vulgar  and 
unnecessary.    /  don't  need  it,  any  more 
than  a  cow  needs  a  side-pocket.    It 's  too 
beastly  hot  for  comfort  at  this  moment. 
I  'd  carry  it  over  my  arm,  only  that  I  should 
feel  how  absurdly  heavy  it  really  is." 
Then  he  looked  ahead  through  the  thick  snow, 
and,  although  he  was  a  man  of  strong  nerves,  he  started 
and  stepped  back  like  a  woman  who  sees  a  cow. 
"Great  Caesar's  Ghost!"  said  he. 
He  was  justified  in  calling  thus  upon  the 
most  respectable  spook  of  antiquity.    The 
sight  he  saw  was  strange  enough  in  it- 
self:  seen  in  the  squalid,  common-       ^v| 
place  sub-suburban  street,   it  was 
bewildering.   There,  ahead  of  him, 
walked    Mephistopheles  —  Meph- 
istopheles  dressed  in  a  red  flan- 
nel suit,  trimmed  with  yellow, 
all  peaks  and  points;    and   on 


*t 


py 


if 


M 


, 


"4/ 


ZOZO.  zoi 

the  head  of  Mephistopheles  was  an  old,  much  worn, 
brown   Derby  hat. 

Brant  caught  Mephisto  by  the  shoulder  and  turned 
him  around.  He  was  a  slight,  undersized  man  of  fifty, 
whose  moustache  and  goatee,  dyed  an  impossible  black, 
served  only  to  accentuate  the  meagre  commonness  of 
his  small  features. 

"  Who  are  you?  "  demanded  Brant. 

"  Sh-h-h  !  "  said  the  shivering  figure,  "  lemme  go  ! 
I  'm  Zozo  !  " 

Brant  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  What  was  it? 
A  walking  advertisement  —  for  an  automatic  toy  or  a 
new  tooth-powder? 

"It's  all  right,"  said  the  slim  man,  his  teeth  chat- 
tering, "lemme  get  along.  I'm  most  freezing.  I  'm 
Zozo  —  the  astrologer.  Why  —  don't  you  know ?  — -on 
Rapelyea  Street?  " 

Brant  dimly  remembered  that  there  was  a  Rapelyea 
Street,  through  which  he  sometimes  passed  on  his  way 
to  the  railroad  station,  and  he  had  some  faint  memory 
of  a  gaudily  painted  shanty  decked  out  with  the  signs 
of  the  zodiac  in  gilt  papier  mac  he. 

"  My  orfice  got  afire  this  evening,"  explained  Zozo, 
"  from  the  bakery  next  door.  And  I  had  to  light  out 
over  the  back  fence.  Them  people  in  that  neighbor- 
hood is  kinder  superstitious.  They  ain't  no  idea  of  as- 
trology. They  don't  know  it  's  a  Science.  They  think 
it  's  some  kind  of  magic.  And  if  they  's  to  see  me 
drove  out  by  a  common,  ordinary  fire,  they  'd  think  I 
was  no  sort  of  an  astrologer.      So  I  lit  out  quiet." 


202  "SHORT   SIXES." 

His  teeth  chattered  so  that  he  made  ten  syllables 
out  of  "quiet." 

"They  don't  understand  the  Science  of  it,"  he  con- 
tinued, "and  the  fire  got  at  my  street  clo'es  before  I 
knew  it,  and  so  I  had  to  light  out  mighty  quick.  Now, 
jes'  lemme  get  home,  will  you  ?  This  here  flannel  ain't 
no  fur  coat." 

Brant's  coat  came  off  his  shoulders  in  an  instant. 

"Put  this  on,"  he  said.  "Confound  you! — "  as 
the  man  resisted,  —  "put  it  on  /" 

The  astrologer  slipped  into  the  coat  with  a  gasp 
of  relief. 

"  Cracky  !  "  he  cried,  "  but  I  was  freezin' ! " 

"  Do  you  live  far  from  here  ?  "  Brant  inquired. 

"Just  a  bit  up  the  road.  I  'm  'most  home,  now," 
replied  Zozo,  still  chattering  as  to  his  teeth. 

As  they  walked  along  the  half-built  street,  Zozo 
told  his  tale.  He  had  been  in  the  astrology  business  for 
thirty  years,  and  it  had  barely  yielded  him  a  living. 
Yet  he  had  been  able,  by  rigorous  economy,  to  save  up 
enough  money  to  build  himself  a  house  —  "elegant 
house,  sir,"  he  said;  "  't  ain't  what  you  may  call  large ; 
but  it 's  an  elegant  house.  I  got  the  design  out  of  a 
book  that  cost  a  dollar,  sir,  a  dollar.  There  ain't  no  use 
in  trying  to  do  things  cheap  when  you  're  going  to  build 
a  house." 

But  his  joy  in  his  house  was  counterbalanced  by 
his  grief  for  the  loss  of  his  "orfice."  He  had  taken  the 
ground-rent  of  the  city  lot,  and  had  erected  the  "orfice" 
at  his  own  cost.   Three  hundred  and  twenty-seven  dollars 


ZOZO.  203 

he  had  spent  on  that  modest  structure.  No,  he  had  not 
insured  it.  And  now  the  bakery  had  caught  fire,  and 
his  "orfice"  was  burned  to  the  ground,  and  his  best  suit 
of  street-clothes  with  it  —  his  only  suit,  as  he  owned 
after  a  second's  hesitation. 

In  ten  minutes'  walk  they  arrived  at  Zozo's  house. 
It  was  quite  the  sort  of  house  that  might  have  come  out 
of  a  dollar  book,  with  a  great  deal  of  scroll-work  about 
it,  and  with  a  tiny  tower,  adorned  with  fantastically 
carved  shingles.  As  they  stood  on  the  porch  —  nothing 
would  content  Zozo  but  that  his  new  friend  should  come 
in  and  warm  himself —  Mr.  Brant  looked  at  the  name 
on  the  door-plate. 

"  Zozo  's  only  my  name  in  the  Science,"  the  astrolo- 
ger explained.  "  My  real  name  —  my  born  name- — is 
Simmons.  But  I  took  Zozo  for  my  business  name.  "Z"s 
seem  to  kinder  go  with  the  astrology  business,  somehow 
—  I  don't  know  why.  There  's  Zadkiel,  and  Zoroaster, 
and  —  oh,  I  don't  know  —  they're  "  Z  "s  or  "X"s,  most 
of  'em ;  and  it  goes  with  the  populace.  I  don't  no  more 
like  humoring  their  superstition  than  you  would;  but  a 
man  's  got  to  live ;  and  the  world  ain't  up  to  the  Science 
yet.  Oh,  that's  you,  Mommer,  is  it?"  he  concluded, 
as  the  door  was  opened  by  a  bright,  buxom,  rather 
pretty  woman.  "  Mother  ain't  to  bed  yet,  is  she?  Say, 
Mommer,  the  orfice  is  burnt  down  !  " 

"  Oh,  Popper  !  "  cried  the  poor  woman  ;  "  you  don't 
reelly  say ! " 

"  True  's  I  live,"  said  the  astrologer,  "and  my 
street-clo'es,  too." 


204  "SHORT   SIXES." 

"Oh,  Popper  !  "  his  wife  cried,  "  what  '11  we  do?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Mommer,  I  don't  know.  We  '11 
have  to  think.  Jes'  let  this  here  gentleman  in,  though. 
I  'd  most  'a'  froze  if  he  had  n't  lent  me  the  loan  of  his 
overcoat.  My  sakes  !  "  he  broke  out,  as  he  looked  at  the 
garment  in  the  light  of  the  hall-lamp,  "but  that  cost 
money.  Mommer,  this  here  's  Mr.  —  I  ain't  caught 
your  name,  sir." 

"  Brant,"  said  the  owner  of  the  name. 

"Band.  And  a  reel  elegant  gentleman  he  is,  Mom- 
mer. I  'd  'a'  froze  stiff  in  my  science  clo'es  if  't  had  n't 
been  for  this  coat.  My  sakes  !  "  he  exclaimed,  reverently, 
"  never  see  the  like  !  That  'd  keep  a  corpse  warm.  Shut 
the  door,  Mommer,  an'  take  the  gentleman  into  the 
dining-room.  He  must  be  right  cold  himself.  Is  Mother 
there?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Zozo's  wife,  "and  so  's  Mamie.  You 
was  so  late  we  all  got  a  kinder  worried,  and  Mamie 
come  right  down  in  her  nighty,  just  before  you  come  in. 
'  Where  's  Popper  ? '  sez  she ;  <  ain't  he  came  in  yet  to 
kiss  me  good  night  ?  'T  ain't  mornin',  is  it  ? '  sez  she.  And 
the  orfice  burned  down  !  Oh,  my,  Popper  !  I  thought  our 
troubles  was  at  an  end.  Come  right  in,  Mr.  —  Mr.  —  I 
ain't  rightly  got  your  name ;  but  thank  you  kindly  for 
looking  after  Popper,  and  if  you  had  an  /dee  how  easy 
he  takes  cold  on  his  chist,  you  'd  know  how  thankful  I 
am.  Come  right  into  the  dinin'-room.  Mother,  this  is 
Mr.  Band,  and  he  lent  Simmons  the  loan  of  his  coat  to 
come  home  with.      Wa'  n't  it  awful  ?  " 

"  What 's  that?  "  croaked  a  very  old  woman  in  the 


ZOZO.  203 

corner  of  the  dining-room.  It  was  a  small  dining-room, 
with  a  small  extension-table  covered  with  a  cheap  red 
damask  cloth. 

"  Simmons's  orfice  is  burned  up,  and  his  best  suit 
with  it,"  explained  Mrs.  Simmons.      "  Ain't  it  awful !  " 

"It's  a  jedgement,"  said  the  old  lady,  solemnly. 
She  was  a  depressing  old  lady.  And  yet  she  evidently 
was  much  revered  in  the  family.  A  four-year-old  child 
hung  back  in  a  corner,  regarding  her  grandmother  with 
awe.  But  when  her  father  entered,  she  slipped  up  to  his 
knee,  and  took  his  kisses  silently,  but  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"Only  one  we  've  got,"  said  Zozo,  as  he  sat  down 
and  took  her  on  his  knee.  "Born  under  Mercury  and 
Jupiter  —  if  that  don't  mean  that  she  '11  be  on  top  of  the 
real-estate  boom  in  this  neighborhood,  I  ain't  no  astrolo- 
ger. Yes,  Ma,"  he  went  on,  addressing  the  old  woman, 
who  gave  no  slightest  sign  of  interest,  "the  orfice 
burned  down,  and  I  had  to  get  home  quick.  Would  n't 
'a'  done  for  them  Rapelyea  Street  folks  to  see  me,  scuttin' 
off  in  my  orfice  clo'es. " 

He  had  shed  Brant's  huge  overcoat,  and  his  wife 
was  passing  her  hand  over  his  thin  flannel  suit. 

"Law,  Simmons!"  she  said,  "you're  all  wet!  " 

"  I  '11  dry  all  right  in  these  flannels,"   said  Zozo 
"Don't  you  bother  to  get  no  other  clo'es." 

He  had  forgotten  that  he  had  told  Brant  that  the 
suit  in  his  office  was  his  only  suit.  Or  perhaps  he  wished 
to  spare  his  wife  the  humiliation  of  such  an  admission. 

"I'm  dryin'  off  first-rate,"  he  said,  cheerfully; 
"Mamie,  Popper  ain't  wet  where  you're  settin',  is  he? 


206  ' •  SHOR  T  SIXES." 

No.  Well,  now,  Mommer,  you  get  out  the  whiskey  and 
give  Mr.  —  Mr.  Band  —  a  glass,  with  some  hot  water, 
and  then  he  won't  get  no  chill.  We  're  all  pro'bitionists 
here,"  he  said,  addressing  Brant,  "but  we  b'lieve  in 
spirits  for  medicinal  use.  Yes,  Mother,  you  'd  oughter  've 
seen  that  place  burn.  Why,  the  flames  was  on  me  before 
I  know'd  where  I  was,  and  I  jist  thought  to  myself, 
thinks  I,  if  these  here  people  see  me  a-runnin'  away 
from  a  fire,  I  won't  cast  no  horoscope  in  Rapelyea  Street 
after  this  j  and  I  tell  you,  the  way  I  got  outer  the  back 
window  and  over  the  back  fence  was  a  caution  !  There  's 
your  whiskey,  sir :  you  '11  excuse  me  if  I  don't  take  none 
myself.     We  ain't  in  the  habit  here." 

Brant  did  not  greatly  wonder  at  their  not  being 
in  the  habit  when  he  tasted  the  whiskey.  It  was  bad 
enough  to  wean  a  toper  on.  But  he  sipped  it,  and  made 
overtures  to  the  baby.  And  after  a  while  she  showed  an 
inclination  to  come  and  look  at  his  wonderful  watch,  that 
struck  the  hour  when  you  told  it  to.  Before  long  she  was 
sitting  on  his  knee.  Her  father  was  telling  the  female 
members  of  the  family  about  the  fire,  and  she  felt  both 
sleepy  and  shut  out.  She  played  with  Brant's  watch  for 
a  while,  and  then  fell  asleep  on  his  breast.  He  held  her 
tenderly,  and  listened  to  the  astrologer  as  he  told  his 
pitiful  tale  over  and  over  again,  trying  to  fix  the  first 
second  when  he  had  smelled  smoke. 

He  was  full  of  the  excitement  of  the  affair :  too  full 
of  the  consciousness  of  his  own  achievement  to  realize 
the  extent  of  the  disaster.  But  his  wife  suddenly  brok? 
down,  crying  out : 


ZOZO.  ixjj 

"Oh,  Simmons!  where '11  you  get  three  hundred 
dollars  to  build  a  new  orfice?" 

Brant  spoke  up,  but  very  softly,  lest  he  might  wake 
the  baby,  who  was  sleeping  with  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"  I  '11  be  happy  to  —  to  advance  the  money,"  he  said. 

Zozo  looked  at  him  almost  sourly. 

"  I  ain't  got  no  security  to  give  you.  This  is  a 
Building  Society  house,  and  there  's  all  the  mortgage 
on  it  that  it  's  worth.  I  could  n't  do  no  better,"  he 
concluded,  sullenly. 

Brant  had  been  poor  enough  himself  to  understand 
the  quick  suspicion  of  the  poor.  "Your  note  will  do, 
Mr.  Simmons,"  he  said;  "  I  think  you  will  pay  me  back. 
I  sha'n't  worry  about  it." 

But  it  was  some  time  before  the  Simmons  family 
could  understand  that  a  loan  of  the  magnitude  of  three 
hundred  dollars  could  be  made  so  easily.  When  the 
glorious  possibility  did  dawn  upon  them,  nothing  would 
do  but  that  Mr.  Brant  should  take  another  drink  of 
whiskey.  It  was  not  for  medicinal  purposes  this  time ; 
it  was  for  pure  conviviality ;  and  Brant  was  expected, 
not  being  a  prohibitionist,  to  revel  vicariously  for  the 
whole  family.  He  drank,  wondering  what  he  had  at 
home  to  take  the  taste  out  of  his  mouth. 

Then  he  handed  the  baby  to  her  mother,  and  started 
to  go.  But  Simmons  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  turned 
into  Zozo,  and  insisted  on  casting  his  benefactor's  horo- 
scope. His  benefactor  told  him  the  day  of  his  birth,  and 
guessed  at  the  hour.  Zozo  figured  on  a  slate,  drawing 
astronomical  characters  very  neatly  indeed,  and  at  last 


iois  "SHORT  SIXES." 

began  to  read  off  the  meaning  of  his  stellar  stenography, 
in  a  hushed,  important  voice. 

He  told  Brant  everything  that  had  happened  to 
him,  (only  none  of  it  had  happened ;  but  Brant  did  not 
say  him  nay.)  Then  he  told  him  various  things  that 
were  to  happen  to  him ;  and  Zozo  cheered  up  greatly 
when  his  impassive  and  sleepy  guest  sighed  as  he  spoke 
of  a  blonde  woman  who  was  troubling  his  heart,  and  who 
would  be  his,  some  day.  There  was  a  blonde  woman 
troubling  Brant's  heart ;  but  there  was  small  probability 
of  her  being  his  some  day  or  any  day.  And  then  Zozo 
went  on  to  talk  about  a  dark  woman  who  would  disturb 
the  course  of  true  love ;  but  only  temporarily  and  as  a 
side  issue,  so  to  speak. 

"  She  ain't  serious,"  he  said.  "  She  may  make  a 
muss;   but  she  ain't  reel  serious." 

"  Good  night !  "  said  Brant. 

"  You  don't  b'lieve  in  the  Science,"  said  Zozo,  in  a 
voice  of  genuine  regret.  "  But  you  jist  see  if  it  don't 
come  true.  Good  night.  Look  out  you  don't  trip  over 
the  scraper." 


The  blonde  woman  in  Mr.  Brant's  case  was  Madame 
la  Comtesse  de  Renette.  No,  she  was  not  a  French  wo- 
man :  she  was  a  loyal  American.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  an  American  millionaire  ;  she  had  lived  for  many  years 
in  France,  and  her  parents  had  married  her,  at  the  age 
of  eighteen,  to  a  title.  The  title  was  owned  by  a  disa- 
greeable and  highly  immoral  old  spendthrift,  who  had 


ZOZO.  sex) 

led  her  a  wretched  life  tor  two  weary  years,  and  then 
had  had  the  unusual  courtesy  and  consideration  to  die. 
Then  she  took  what  he  had  left  of  her  millions,  went 
home  to  the  town  of  her  birth,  bought  a  fine  estate  on 
its  outskirts,  and  settled  down  to  enjoy  a  life  wherein  she 
could  awake  each  morning  to  feel  that  the  days  would 
never  more  bring  her  suffering  and  humiliation. 

Then  Mr.  Richard  Brant  disturbed  her  peace  of 
mind  by  falling  in  love  with  her,  and  what  was  worse, 
asking  her  to  marry  him.  That,  she  said,  she  could  not 
do.  He  was  her  best,  her  dearest  friend :  she  admired 
and  esteemed  him  more  than  any  man  in  the  world.  If 
she  ever  could  marry  a  man,  she  would  marry  him.  But 
she  never,  never  could.     He  must  not  ask  her. 

Of  course,  he  did  ask  her.  And  he  asked  her  more 
than  once.  And  there  matters  stood,  and  there  they 
seemed  likely  to  stay. 

But  Richard  Brant  was  a  man  who,  when  he  wanted 
a  thing,  wanted  it  with  his  whole  heart  and  his  whole 
soul,  and  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  idea  from  his 
mind.  After  eighteen  months  of  waiting,  he  began  to 
find  the  situation  intolerable.  He  had  no  heart  in  his 
business  —  which,  for  the  matter  of  that,  took  care  of 
itself — and  he  found  it,  as  he  said  to  himself,  "a  chore 
to  exist."  And  what  with  dwelling  on  the  unattainable, 
and  what  with  calling  on  the  unattainable  once  or  twice 
every  week,  he  found  that  he  was  getting  into  a  morbid 
state  of  mind  that  was  the  next  thing  to  a  mild  mania. 

"This  has  got  to  stop,"  said  Richard  Brant.  "I 
will  put  an  end  to  it.      I  will  wait  till  an  even  two  years 


no 


SHORT   SIXES.1' 


\Z- 


is   up,  and  then  I  will  go  away  somewhere  where  I  can't 
get  back  until  —  until  I  've  got  over  it. " 

Opportunity  is  never  lacking  to  a  man  in  this 
mood.  Some  scientific  idiot  was  getting  up  an  Antarctic 
expedition,  to  start  in  the  coming  June.  Brant  applied 
for  a  berth. 

"That  settles  it,"  he  said. 

Of  course,  it  did  n't  settle  it.  He  moped  as  much 
as  ever  and  found  it  just  as  hard  as  ever  to  occupy  his 
mind.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  astrologer,  he  would 
hardly  have  known  what  to  do. 
It  amused  him  to  interest  himself  in 
Zozo  and  his  affairs.  He  watched 
;.  the  building  of  the  new  "orfice", 
and  discussed  with  Zozo  the 
color  of  the  paint  and  the  style 
of  the  signs.  Zozo  tried  to 
convert  him  to  astrology,  and 
that  amused  him.  The  little 
man's  earnest  faith  in  this 
"science"  was  an  edifying  study. 
Then,  when  the  "orfice"  was  com- 
pleted, and  Zozo  began  business  again,  he  took  great 
pleasure  in  sitting  hid  in  Zozo's  back  room,  listening  to 
Zozo's  clients,  who  were  often  as  odd  as  Zozo  himself. 
He  had  many  clients  now.  Had  he  not  miraculously 
evanished  from  a  burning  building,  and  come  back  un- 
scathed ? 


ZOZO.  ill 

But  there  are  two  sides  to  every  friendship.  Brant 
took  an  amused  interest  in  Zozo.  Zozo  worshiped  Brant 
as  his  preserver  and  benefactor.  Zozo's  affairs  entertained 
Brant.  Brant's  affairs  were  a  matter  of  absorbing  con- 
cern to  Zozo.      Zozo  would  have  died  for  Brant. 

So  it  came  about  that  Zozo  found  out  all  about  the 
blonde  lady  in  Brant's  case.  How?  Well,  one  is  not 
an  astrologer  for  nothing.  Brant's  coachman  and  Rime, 
de  Renette's  maid  were  among  Zozo's  clients.  No  society 
gossip  knew  so  much  about  the  Brant-Renette  affair  as 
Zozo  knew,  inside  of  two  months. 


"It's  perfectly  ridiculous,  Annette!  I  ca/i't  see 
the  man !  ' 

"Madame  knows  best,"  said  Annette,  wiping  away 
a  ready  tear.  "  It  is  only  that  I  love  Madame.  And  it 
is  not  well  to  anger  those  who  have  the  power  of  magic. 
If  they  can  bring  good  luck,  they  can  bring  bad.  And 
he  is  certainly  a  great  magician.    Fire  can  not  burn  him." 

Mme.  de  Renette  toyed  with  a  gorgeously-printed 
card  that  read : 


Astrologer  &  Fire  Monarch 

Seventh  Son  of  a  Seventh  Son. 
27  Kapelyea  St. 


SHORT   SIXES." 


"Well,"  she  said  at  last,  "show  him  in,  Annette. 
But  it 's  perfectly  absurd  !  " 

Zozo,  in  a  very  ready-made  suit,  with  no  earthly  idea 
what  to  do  with  his  hat, profuse  of  bows 
and  painfully   flustered,    did   not  in- 
spire awe. 

"You  wish  to  see  me?"  inquired 

[me.  de  Renette,  somewhat  sternly. 

"Madam,"  began  her  visitor,  in 

tremulous  voice,  "I  come  with  a 

message  from  the  stars." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mme. 
de  Renette,  "will  you  kindly 
deliver  your  message?  I  do 
not  wish  to  detain  you  — 
from  your  stars." 


It  was  a  flushed,  but  a  self- 
complacent,  beaming,  happy 
Zozo    who    stopped    Richard 
Brant  on  the  street  an  hour  later. 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Brant,  sir,"  he  said;  "I  'd  like 
a  few  minutes  of  your  time." 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Brant,  wondering  if  Zozo 
wanted  to  borrow  any  more  money. 

"You  've  been  a  great  good  friend  to  me,  Mr. 
Brant,"  Zozo  began,  "and  I  hope  you  b'lieve,  sir,  that 
me  and  Mommer  and  Ma  Simmons  and  Mamie  are  jist 
as  grateful  as  —  well,  as  anything." 


zozo. 


213 


"Oh,  that's  all  right,  Simmons  — " 

"Yes,  sir.  Well,  now  you  '11  pardon  me  for  seeming 
to  interfere,  like,  in  your  business.  But  knowin'  as  I  done 
how  your  affairs  with  the  blonde  lady  was  hangin'  fire, 
so  to  speak  —  " 

"  'The  blonde  lady  ! '  "  broke  in  Brant. 

"Madam  dee  Rennet,"  explained  Zozo. 

"The  devil  !  "  said  Brant. 

"  Well,    sir,  knowin'  that,  as  I   done,  and  knowin' 
that   there  could  n't  be  nothin'  to  it  —  no 
lady  would  chuck  you  over  her  shoulder, 
Mr.  Brant,  sir  —  but  only  jist  that  her 
mind  was  n't  at  ease  with  regard 
to  the  dark  lady  —  whereas  the 
stars  show  clear  as  ever  they 
showed   any   thin',  that  the 
dark  lady  was  only  temporary 
and     threatened,    and     nothin' 
reel  serious  —  why,   I  made  so 
free  as  jist  to  go  right  straight 
to   Madam   dee  Rennet  and 
ease  her  mind  on  that  point 
—  and  I  did." 

"Great  heavens!"   Brant 
yelled.     "You   infernal  meddler! 
what  have  you  done?    I  don't  know 
a  dark  woman  in  the  world  !     What 
have  you  said?  —  oh,  curse  it  !"  he  cried,  as  he   realized, 
from  the  pain  of  its  extinction,  that  hope  had  been  alive 
in  his  heart,  "what  have  you  done?  —  you  devil!" 


»4 


SHORT   SIXES." 


He  turned  on  his  heel  and  rushed  off  toward  Ma- 
dame de  Renette's  house. 

"This  does  settle  it,"  he  thought.  "  There  's  no 
getting  an  idea  like  that  out  of  a  woman's  head." 


"  I  understand,"  he  said,  as  he  hurriedly  presented 
himself  to  the  lady  of  his  love,  "that  a  madman  has 
been  here  —  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mme.  de  Renette,  severely. 

"You  didn't  pay  any  attention  to  his  nonsense?" 

"About  the  dark  woman?"  inquired  Mme.  de 
Renette. 

"Why,  there  s  no  other  woman  dark  or  light  —  " 

"  I  don't  know  whether  there  is  or  not,  Richard," 
said  Mme.  de  Renette,  with  icy  distinctness;  "but  I 
know  that  there  won't  be,  after  —  well,  sir,  could  you 
break  your  June  engagement  for  —  me?" 

And  Zozo  was  justified. 


AN  OLD,  OLD  STORY. 


°0 


AN    OLD,     OLD    STORY. 


SUPPOSE    THE    Tullingworth- 
Gordons  were  good  Ameri- 
cans at  heart;  but  the  Tul- 
lingworth-Gordons    were   of 
English  extraction,  and,  as 
somebody  once  said,   the 
extraction    had    not   been 
completely     successful  — 
a  great  deal  of  the  English 
soil   clung   to   the   roots    of 
the  family  tree. 
They  lived  on  Long  Island,  in  a  very  English  way, 
in  a  manor-house  which  was  as  English  as  they  could 
make  it,  among  surroundings   quite   respectably  English 
for  Americans  of  the  third  or  fourth  generation. 

They  had  two  English  servants  and  some  other 
American  "help";  but  they  called  the  Americans  by 
their  last  names,  which  anglified  them  to  some  extent. 
They  had  a  servants'  hall,  and  a  butler's  pantry,  and  a 
page  in  buttons,   and  they  were  unreasonably  proud  of 


2/8  "SHORT   SIXES." 

the  fact  that  one  of  their  Tory  ancestors  had  been  obliged 
to  leave  New  York  for  Halifax,  in  1784,  having  only  the 
alternative  of  a  more  tropical  place  of  residence.  I  do 
not  know  whether  they  really  held  that  the  signers  of 
the  Declaration  of  Independence  committed  a  grave 
error;  but  I  do  know  that  when  they  had  occasion  to 
speak  of  Queen  Victoria,  they  always  referred  to  her  as 
"  Her  Majesty." 

"I  see  by  the  Mail  to- 
night,"    Mr.      Tulling- 
worth-Gordon  would  say 
to  his  wife,  ''that  Her 

V "  -    \il  JfVlW*-  ^  38&-       Ma->esty  has  Presented 
'.-g^BaL'^Ay  i|  ^jpSy^^W*- m  1&  5|pfcl  the  poor  bricklayer  who 

•"mx*1  '  saved  seventeen  lives  and 

lost  both  his  arms  at  the  Chillingham- 

on-Frees  disaster  with  an  India  shawl  and  a  copy  of  the 

Life  of  the  Prince  Consort." 

"  Her  Majesty  is  always  so  generous  !  "  Mrs.  Tulling- 
worth-Gordon  would  sigh;  "and  so  considerate  of  the 
common  people  ! " 

Mr.  Tullingworth-Gordon  was  a  rich  man,  and  he 
was  free  to  indulge  the  fancy  of  his  life,  and  to  be  as 
English  as  his  name;  and  he  engaged  those  two  English 
servants  to  keep  up  the  illusion. 

It  is  the  tale  of  the  menials  that  I  have  to  tell  — 
the  tale  of  the  loves  of  Samuel  Bilson,  butler,  and 
Sophronia  Huckins,  "which  'Uckins  it  ever  was  an'  so  it 
were  allays  called,  and  which  'Uckins  is  good  enough  for 
me,  like  it  was  good  enough  for  my  parents  now  departed, 


AN  OLD,  OLD  STORY.  219 

and  there  is  'ope  for  'eaven  for  chapel-goers,  though  a 
Church-of-England  woman  I  am  myself." 

Sophronia  Huckins  was  lady's  maid  to  Mrs.  Tulling- 
worth-Gordon,  housekeeper  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tulling- 
worth-Gordon,  and,  in  a  way,  autocrat  and  supreme  ruler 
over  the  whole  house  of  Tullingworth-Gordon.  There 
were  other  servants,  as  I  have  said,  but,  in  their  several 
departments,  Bilson  and  Sophronia  were  king  and  queen. 
Of  course,  at  the  first,  there  was  some  friction  between 
these  two  potentates.  For  ten  years  they  scratched  and 
sparred  and  jostled;  for  ten  years  after  that  they  lived  in 
comfortable  amity,  relieving  their  feelings  by  establishing 
a  reign  of  terror  over  the  other  servants;  and  then  — 
ah,  then  —  began  the  dawn  of  another  day.  Bilson  was 
careless  about  the  wine ;  Sophronia  took  to  the  wearing 
of  gowns  unbefitting  a  maid  of  forty  years.  It  broke  upon 
the  Tullingworth-Gordon  mind  that  something  was  in  the 
wind,  and  that  the  conservative  quiet  of  their  domestic 
service  was  likely  to  be  troubled. 

Meanwhile,  Nature,  unconscious  of  the  proprieties 
of  the  situation,  was  having  her  own  way  in  the  little 
passage  back  of  the  butler's  pantry. 

"  You  say  " —  the  housekeeper  spoke  with  a  certain 
sternness  — "  as  how  you  have  loved  me  for  ten  long 
years.  But  I  say  as  how  it  would  'ave  been  more  to 
your  credit,  Samuel  Bilson,  to  'ave  found  it  out  afore 
this,  when,  if  I  do  say  it  myself,  there  was  more 
occasion." 

"It's  none  the  wuss,  Sophronia,  for  a-bein'  found 
out  now,"  rejoined  the  butler,  sturdily:    "what  you  was, 


SHORT  SIXES." 


you  is  to  me,  an'  I  don't  noways  regret  that  you  ain't 
what  you  was,  in  point  of  beauty,  to  'ave  young  men  an' 
sich  a-comin'  between  us,  as  an  engaged  pair." 

"'Oo'san  engaged   pair?"   demanded   Sophronia, 
with  profound  dignity. 

"Us,"  said  Mr.  Bilson,   placidly:    "or  to  be  con- 
sidered as  sich." 

"I    ain't   considered   us  as   sich,"  said    Sophronia, 
coquettishly  :    "not  as  yet." 

Mr.  Bilson  was  stacking  up  dishes 
on  the  shelves  in  the  passage- 
way.    He  paused  in  his  labors; 
put  his  hands  on  his  hips,  and 
faced  his  tormenting  charmer 
with  determination  in  his  eye. 
"Sophronia  'Uckins  !  "  he 
said  :   ' '  you  're  forty,  this  day 
week;    that   much    I    know. 
Forty  's  forty.      You  've  kep' 
your  looks  wonderful,  an'  you 
'ave  your  teeth  which  Provi- 
dence give  you.     But  forty 's 
forty.      If  you  mean  Bilson, 
you   mean   Bilson  now,   'ere 
in   this  'ere  cupboard-exten- 
sion, your  'and  an'  your  'art, 
to  love,   honor,  an'  obey,  so 
'elp  you.    Now,  'ow  goes  it?" 
It  went  Mr.  Bilson's  way. 
Sophronia  demurred,  and  for  a 


AN  OLD,  OLD  STORY.  22t 

space  of  some  few  weeks  she  was  doubtful ;  then  she 
said  "No"  —  but  in  the  end  she  consented. 

Why  should  she  not?  Bilson  had  been  a  saving 
man.  No  luxurious  furniture  beautified  his  little  room 
over  the  stables.  His  character  was  above  reproach. 
He  allowed  himself  one  glass  of  port  each  day  from  Mr. 
Tullingworth-Gordon's  stock;  but  there  he  drew  the 
line.  Such  as  it  was,  the  master  of  the  house  had  his 
own  wine,  every  drop,  except  that  solitary  glass  of  port 
—  save  on  one  occasion. 

And  Sophronia  Huckins  was  the  occasion  of  that 
occasion.  Smooth  and  decorous  ran  the  course  of  true 
love  for  four  months  on  end.  Mrs.  Tullingworth-Gordon 
had  been  made  acquainted  with  the  state  of  affairs ;  had 
raged,  had  cooled,  and  had  got  to  that  point  where  the 
natural  woman  arose  within  her,  and  she  began  to  think 
about  laying  out  a  trousseau  for  the  bride.  Fair  was  the 
horizon  ;  cloudless  the  sky.  Then  came  the  heavy  blow 
of  Fate. 

When  Cupid  comes  to  you  at  forty  years,  he  is 
likely  to  be  something  wrinkled,  more  or  less  fat  and 
pursy,  a  trifle  stiff  in  the  joints.  You  must  humor  him  a 
little ;  you  must  make  believe,  and  play  that  he  is  young 
and  fair.  It  takes  imagination  to  do  this,  and  in  imagina- 
tion Sophronia  was  deficient.  Her  betrothal  was  not  two 
months  old  when  she  suddenly  realized  that  there  was 
something  grotesque  and  absurd  about  it.  How  did  she 
get  the  idea  ?  Was  it  an  echo  of  the  gossip  of  the  other 
servants  ?  Did  she  see  the  shop-keepers,  quick  to  catch 
all  the  local  gossip,  smiling  at  her  as  she  went  about  the 


222  '•SHORT  SIXES." 

little  town  on  her  domestic  errands  ?  Was  there  some- 
thing in  Bilson's  manners  that  told  her  that  he  felt,  in 
his  inmost  heart,  that  he  had  got  to  the  point  where  he 
had  to  take  what  he  could  get,  and  that  he  held  her 
lucky  to  have  been  conveniently  accessible  at  that  critical 
juncture  ? 

We  can  not  know.  Perhaps  Bilson  was  to  blame. 
A  man  may  be  in  love  —  over  head  and  ears  in  love  — 
and  yet  the  little  red  feather  of  his  vanity  will  stick  out 
of  the  depths,  and  proclaim  that  his  self-conceit  is  not 
yet  dead. 

Perhaps  it  was  Bilson  :  perhaps  it  was  some  other 
cause.  It  matters  not.  One  dull  November  day,  Soph- 
ronia  Huckins  told  Samuel  Bilson  that  she  could  not  and 
would  not  marry  him. 

"  It  was  my  intent,  Samuel ;  but  I  'ave  seen  it  was 
not  the  thing  for  neither  of  us.  If  you  had  'a'  seen  your 
way  clear  five  or  ten  or  may  be  fifteen  years  ago,  I  don't 
say  as  it  would  n't  'a'  been  different.  But  as  to  sich  a 
thing  now,  I  may  'ave  been  foolish  a-listenin'  to  you  last 
July ;  but  what  brains  I  'ave  is  about  me  now,  an'  I  tell 
you  plain,  Samuel  Bilson,  it  can't  never  be." 

To  Bilson  this  came  like  a  clap  of  thunder  out  of 
the  clearest  and  sunniest  of  skies.  If  the  Cupid  within 
him  had  giown  old  and  awkward,  he  was  unaware  of  it. 
To  his  dull  and  heavily  British  apprehension,  it  was  the 
same  Cupid  that  he  had  known  in  earlier  years.  The 
defection  of  his  betrothed  was  a  blow  from  which  he 
could  not  recover. 

"  Them  women,"  he  said,  "  is  worse  'n  the  measles. 


AN  OLD,  OLD  STORY. 


223 


You  don't  know  when  they  're  comin'  out,  an'  you  don't 
know  when  they're  goin'  in." 

The  blow  fell  upon  him  late  one  evening,  long  after 
dinner;  when  everything  had  been  put  to  rights.  He 
was  sitting  in  the  butler's  pantry,  sipping  his  one  glass  of 
port,  when  Sophronia  entered  and  delivered  her  dictum. 

She  went  out  and  left  him  —  left  him  with 
the   port.     She  left  him  with  the  sherry ; 
she  left  him  with  the  claret,  with  the  old, 
old  claret,  with  the  comet  year,  with  the 
wine  that  had  rounded  the  Cape,  with 
the  Cognac,  with  the  Chartreuse, 
with   the  syrupy  Curacoa  and    the 
Eau     de     Dantzic,     and    with    the 
Scotch   whiskey  that  Mr.  Tulling- 
worth- Gordon     sometimes    drank 
in  despite  of  plain  American  Rye. 

She  left  him  with  the  struct- 
ure of  a  lifetime    shattered;    with 
the  love  of  twenty  years  nipped  in 
its  late-bourgeoning  bud.    She  left  him 
alone,  and  she  left  him  with  a  deadly  nepenthe  at  hand. 

He  fell  upon  those  bottles,  and,  for  once  in  his 
quiet,  steady,  conservative  life,  he  drank  his  fill.  He 
drank  the  soft,  sub-acid  claret ;  he  drank  the  nutty 
sherry;  he  drank  the  yellow  Chartreuse  and  the  ruddy 
Curacoa.  He  drank  the  fiery  Cognac,  and  the  smoky 
Scotch  whiskey.  He  drank  and  drank,  and  as  his  grief 
rose  higher  and  higher,  high  and  more  high  he  raised 
the  intoxicating  flood. 


224  "  SHORT    SIXES." 

At  two  o'clock  of  that  night,  a  respectable  butler 
opened  a  side-door  in  the  mansion  of  Mr.  Tullingworth- 
Gordon,  and  sallied  forth  to  cool  his  brow  in  the  mid- 
night air. 

He  was  singing  as  they  brought  him  back  on  a 
shutter,  in  the  early  morning;  but  it  was  not  wholly 
with  drunkenness,  for  delirium  had  hold  of  him.  Down 
to  the  south  of  the  house  were  long  stretches  of  marsh, 
reaching  into  the  Great  South  Bay,  and  there  he  had 
wandered  in  his  first  intoxication.  There  he  had  stepped 
over  the  edge  of  a  little  dyke  that  surrounded  Mr.  Tul- 
lingworth-Gordon's  pike-pond — where  all  the  pike  died, 
because  the  water  was  too  salt  for  them- — and  there  they 
found  him  lying  on  his  back,  with  one  of  the  most 
interesting  cases  of  compound  fracture  in  his  right  leg 
that  has  yet  been  put  on  record,  and  with  the  flat  stones 
that  topped  the  dyke  lying  over  him. 

They  took  him  to  his  room  over  the  stable,  and  put 
him  to  bed,  and  sent  for  the  doctor.  The  doctor  came, 
and  set  the  leg.  He  also  smelt  of  Mr.  Bilson's  breath,  and 
gazed  upon  Mr.  Bilson's  feverish  countenance,  and  said : 

"  Hard  drinker,  eh?  We  '11  have  trouble  with  him, 
probably.      Has  n't  he  got  anybody  to  look  after  him  ?  " 

This  query  found  its  way  up  to  the  manor-house  of 
the  Tullingworth-Gordons.  It  came,  in  some  way,  to 
the  ears  of  Sophronia.  Shortly  after  dinner-time  she 
appeared  in  the  chamber  of  Bilson. 

Bilson  was  "coming  out  of  it."  He  was  conscious, 
he  was  sore;  he  was  heavy  of  heart  and  head.  He 
looked   up,    as  he  lay  on   his  bed,  and  saw  a  comely, 


AN  OLD,  OLD  STORY. 


22$ 


middle-aged  Englishwoman,  sharp  of  feature,  yet  some- 
how pleasant  and  comforting,  standing  by  his  bed. 

"  Sophronia  !  "  he  exclaimed.  • 

"Hush!"  she  said;  "the  medical  man  said  you 
was  n't  to  talk." 

"  Sophronia  —  't  ain't  you  !  " 

"  P'r'aps  it  ain't,"  said  Sophronia,  sourly;  "p'r'aps 
it  's  a  cow,  or  a  'orse  or  a  goat,  or  anythin'  that  is  my 
neighbor's.  But  the  best  I  know,  it  's  me,  an'  I  've  come 
to  'ave  an  eye  on  you." 

"Sophronia!"  gasped  the  sufferer;  "'t  ain't  no- 
ways proper." 

"  'T  's   goin'   to   be   proper,    Samuel   Bilson.      You 
wait,    an'   you  '11  see  what  you  '11  see. 
'Ere  'e  comes." 

Mr.  Bilson's  room  was 
reached  by  a  ladder,  com- 
ing up  through  a  hole  in 
the  floor.  Through  this 
hole  came  a  peculiarly 
shaped  felt  hat ;  then  a 
pale  youthful  face  ;  then  a 
vest  with  many  buttons. 

"To  'ave  and  to  'old," 
said  Sophronia.    "'Ere  'e  is." 
The  head  came  up,  and 
a  long,   thin  body  after  it.      Pale  and 
gaunt,    swaying  slightly   backward    and   forward,    like   a 
stiff  cornstalk  in  a  mild  breeze,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Chizzy 
stood  before  them  and  smiled  vaguely. 


iab  "SHORT  SIXES." 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Chizzy  was  only  twenty-four, 
and  he  might  have  passed  for  nineteen  ;  but  he  was  so 
high  a  churchman  that  the  mould  of  several  centuries 
was  on  him.  He  was  a  priest  without  a  cure ;  but,  as 
some  of  his  irreverent  friends  expressed  it,  he  was  "in 
training "  for  the  Rectorship  of  St.  Bede's  the  Less,  a 
small  church  in  the  neighborhood,  endowed  by  Mr. 
Tullingworth-Gordon  and  disapproved  of  by  his  Bishop, 
who  had  not  yet  appointed  a  clergyman.  The  Bishop 
had  been  heard  to  say  that  he  had  not  yet  made  up  his 
mind  whether  St.  Bede's  the  Less  was  a  church  or  some 
new  kind  of  theatre.  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Chizzy  was  on 
hand,  living  under  the  wing  of  the  Tullingworth-Gor- 
dons,  and  trying  to  make  the  good  Church-of-England 
people  of  the  parish  believe  that  they  needed  him  and 
his  candles  and  his  choir-boys. 

Behind  Mr.  Chizzy  came  two  limp  little  girls,  hang- 
ers-on of  the  Tullingworth-Gordon  household  by  grace 
of  Mrs.  Tullingworth-Gordon's  charity.  In  New  England 
they  would  have  been  called  "chore-girls."  The  Tul- 
lingworth-Gordons  called  them  "scullery  maids." 

Bilson  half  rose  on  his  elbow  in  astonishment,  alarm 
and  indignation. 

"  Sophronia  'Uckins,"  he  demanded,  "  what  do 
this  'ere  mean?  I  ain't  a-dyin',  and  I  ain't  got  no  need 
of  a  clergyman,  thank  'eaven.  And  no  more  this  ain't 
a  scullery,  Mrs.  'Uckins." 

"  This,"  said  Sophronia,  pointing  at  the  clergyman 
as  though  he  were  a  wax-figure  in  a  show,  "  this  is 
to   wed  you   and   me,   Samuel    Bilson,    and  them "    (she 


AN  OLD,  OLD  STORY. 


32? 


indicated  the  scullery  maids,)  "them 
witnesses  it." 

"  Witnesses  wot?  "  Mr.  Bilson 
inquired,  in  a  yell. 

"  Witnesses  our  marriage, 
Samuel  Bilson.  Nuss  you  1 
can  not,  both  bein'  single,  and 
nussed  you  must  and  shall  be. 
Now  set  up  and  be  marri'd  quiet." 

Mr.  Bilson's  physical  condition 
forbade  him  to  leap  from  the  bed ; 
but  his  voice  leaped  to  the  rafters 
above  him. 

"  Marri'd  !  "  he  shouted  :   "  I  '11  die  fust !  " 

"  Die  you  will,"  said  Sophronia,  calmly  but  sternly, 
"  if  married  you  ain't,  and  that  soon." 

"  Sophronia  !  "  Bilson's  voice  was  hollow  and  deeply 
reproachful;    "you  'ave  thro  wed  me  over." 

"  I  'ave,"  she  assented. 

"  And  'ere  I  am." 

"  And  there  you  are." 

"  Sophronia,  you  'ave  not  treated  me  right." 

"I  'ave  not,  Samuel  Bilson,"  Miss  Huckins  cheer- 
fully assented;  "  I  might  'ave  known  as  you  was  not  fit 
to  take  care  of  yourself.  But  I  mean  to  do  my  dooty 
now,  so  will  you  'ave  the  kindness  to  button  your  clo'es 
at  the  neck,  and  sit  up?" 

Mr.  Bilson  mechanically  fastened  the  neck-band  of 
his  night-shirt  and  raised  himself  to  the  sitting  posture. 

"Mrs.    Huckins,"    Mr.    Chizzy   interrupted,    in    an 


Z28  "SHORT  SIXES." 

uncertain  way ;  "  I  did  n't  understand  —  you  did  not  tell 
me  —  there  does  not  appear  to  have  been  the  usual  pre- 
liminary arrangement  for  this  most  sacred  and  solemn 
ceremony." 

Sophronia  turned  on  him  with  scorn  in  her  voice 
and  bearing. 

"  Do  I  understand,  sir,  as  you  find  yourself  in  a 
'urry  ?" 

"I  am  not  in  a  hurry  —  oh,  no.  But  —  dear  me, 
you  know,  I  can't  perform  the  ceremony  under  these 
circumstances." 

Miss  Huckins  grew  more  profoundly  scornful. 

"  Do  you  know  any  himpediment  w'y  we  should 
not  be  lawfully  joined  together  in  matrimony?" 

"  Why,"  said  the  perturbed  cleric,  "  he  does  n't 
want  you." 

"  'E  does  n't  know  what  'e  wants,"  returned  Soph- 
ronia, grimly;  "if  women  waited  for  men  to  find  out 
w'en  they  wanted  wives,  there  'd  be  more  old  maids  than 
there  is.  If  you  '11  be  good  enough  to  take  your  book 
in  your  'and,  sir,  I  '11  see  to  'im." 

Bilson  made  one  last  faint  protest. 

"  'T  would  n't  be  right,  Sophronia,"  he  wailed;  "  I 
ain't  wot  I  was;  I  'm  a  wuthless  and  a  busted  wreck.  I 
can't  tie  no  woman  to  me  for  life.  It  ain't  doin'  justice 
to  neither." 

"  If  you  're  what  you  say  you  are,"  said  Sophronia, 
imperturbably,  "  and  you  know  better  than  I  do,  you 
should  be  glad  to  take  wot  you  can  get.  If  I  'm  suited, 
don't  you  complain." 


AN  OLD,  OLD  STORY.  Z29 

"  Mrs.  Huckins,"  the  young  clergyman  broke  in, 
feebly  asserting  himself,  "  this  is  utterly  irregular." 

"  I  know  it  is,"  said  Sophronia;  "and  we  're  a- wait- 
in'  for  you  to  set  it  straight." 

The  two  chore-girls  giggled.  A  warm  flush  mounted 
to  Mr.  Chizzy's  pale  face.  He  hesitated  a  second ;  then 
nervously  opened  his  book,  and  began  the  service. 
Sophronia  stood  by  the  bedside,  clasping  Bilson's  hand 
in  a  grasp  which  no  writhing  could  loosen. 

"Dearly  beloved,"  Mr.  Chizzy  began,  addressing 
the  two  chore-girls;  and  with  a  trembling  voice  he  hur- 
ried on  to  the  important  question  : 

"  Wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  be  thy  wedded 
wife  ?  — " 

«N  —  yah!" 

Bilson  had  begun  to  say  "No;"  but  Sophronia's 
firm  hand  had  tightened  on  his  with  so  powerful  a  pres- 
sure that  his  negative  remonstrance  ended  in  a  posi- 
tive yell. 

"Ah,  really,"  broke  in  Mr.  Chizzy;  "I  can  not 
proceed,  M  —  M  —  Miss  —  ah,  what 's  your  name  ?  — 
I  positively  can't !  " 

"Mrs.  Bilson"  returned  the  unmoved  Sophronia. 
"Are  you  intending  for  to  part  'usband  and  wife  at  this 
point,  sir  ?  Excuse  me ;  but  we  're  a-waitin'  of  your 
convenience." 

Mr.  Chizzy  was  a  deep  red  in  the  face.  His  pallor 
had  given  place  to  a  flush  quite  as  ghastly  in  its  way. 
The  blood  was  waltzing  in  giddy  circles  through  his 
brain  as  he  read  on  and  on. 


sjo  •  •  SHOR  T  SrXES. ' ' 

No  church  —  no  candles  —  no  robes —  no  choiring 
boys.  Only  this  awful  woman,  stern  as  death,  com- 
manding him  and  Bilson.  Why  had  he  yielded  to  her? 
Why  had  he  permitted  himself  to  be  dragged  hither? 
Why  was  he  meekly  doing  her  bidding?  Mr.  Chizzy 
felt  as  though  he  were  acting  in  some  ghastly,  night- 
marish dream. 

"  Then  shall  the  Minister  say :  Who  giveth  this 
Woman  to  be  married  to  this  Man  ?  " 

That  roused  Mr.  Chizzy  from  his  trance.  It  came 
late;  but  it  seemed  to  open  a  way  out  of  the  horribly 
irregular  business.  He  paused  and  tried  to  fix  an  un- 
certain eye  on  Sophronia. 

"Have  you  a  Father  or  a  Friend  here?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Jim!"  said  Sophronia,  loudly. 

"Ma'am?"  came  a  voice  from  the  lower  story  of 
the  stable. 

"Say  'I  do.'" 

"Ma'am?" 

"  Say  'I  do  '  —  an'  say  it  directly  !  " 

"Say  —  say?  —  what  do  you  want,  Miss  Huckins?" 

" Jim!"  said  Sophronia,  sternly,  "open  your 
mouth  an'  say  '  I  do '  out  loud,  or  I  come  down  there 
immejit ! " 

"I  do  ! "  came  from  the  floor  below. 

"  'Ere  's  the  ring,"  said  Sophronia,  promptly;  "  '  I, 
M.,  take  thee,  N.' — if  you  '11  'ave  the  kindness  to  go  on, 
sir,  we  won't  detain  you  any  longer  than  we  can  'elp. 
I  'm  give  away,  I  believe;  an'  I  '11  take  'im,  M." 


AN  OLD,  OLD  STORY. 


*3* 


Up   through    the   opening 


"  Forasmuch  as,"  began  the  Reverend  Mr.  Chizzy,  a 
few  minutes  later,  addressing  the  chore-girls,  "  Samuel 
and  Sophronia  have  consented  together  in  holy  wed- 
lock — " 

He  stopped  suddenly, 
in   the  floor  arose  the  head 
of   a   youthful   negro,    per- 


haps fourteen  years  of  age. 
Mr.  Chizzy  recognized  him 
as  the  stable-boy,  a  jockey 
of  some  local  fame. 

"  What  you  want  me 
to  say  I  done  do  ?  "  he 
inquired. 

«Mrs.  —  Mrs.  —  Bil- 
son  !  "  said  Mr.  Chizzy,  with 
a  tremulous  indignation  in 
his  voice;  "did  this  negro 
infant  act  as  your  parent  or 
friend,  just  now?  " 

" 'E  give  me  away," 
replied    the    unabashed    bride. 

Mr.  Chizzy  looked  at  her,  at  Bilson,  at  Jim,  and  at 
the  chore-girls.  Then  he  opened  his  book  again  and 
finished  the  ceremony. 


The  Tullingworth-Gordons  were  angry  when  they 
heard  of  the  marriage.  They  missed  the  two  main- 
stays of  their  domestic  system.    But — well,  Bilson  was 


2&  ' •  SHOE T  SIXES." 

growing  old,  and  Sophronia  was  growing  tyrannical. 
Perhaps  it  was  better  as  it  was.  And,  after  all,  they  had 
always  wanted  a  Lodge,  and  a  Lodge:keeper,  and  the 
old  ice-house  stood  near  the  gate  —  a  good  two  hundred 
feet  from  the  house. 

It  was  nearly  a  year  before  Bilson  could  walk  around 
with  comfort.  Indeed,  eighteen  months  later,  he  did 
not  care  to  do  more  than  sit  in  the  sun  and  question 
Fate,  while  Mrs.  Bilson  tried  to  quiet  a  noisy  baby  within 
the  Lodge. 

"'Ere  I  am  laid  up,  as  I  should  be,"  said  Bilson; 
"an  there's  an  active  woman  a-goin'  around  with  a 
baby,  and  a-nussin'  of  him.  If  things  was  as  they 
should  be,  in  the  course  of  nachur,  we  'd  'ave  exchanged 
jobs,  we  would." 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
174 


